Forgery
by Hetep-Heres
Summary: Imagine Downton Abbey transposed in the years before the French Revolution, and blended with Ikeda's Rose of Versailles... and Robert, desperate for a son, making a drastic decision when his yougest daughter is born! Cross-over (well, sort of...)
1. Ch 1 - Prologue

**Chapter 1 - Prologue**

On a stormy night of the year of our Lord 1755, Robert Crolet, Earl of Grand-Tamme, was pacing the vast dining room of his sumptuous family castle, built on the Grand-Tamme's estate between Paris and Versailles. He hadn't even taken the time to change from his uniform of general of the Royal Guards.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Caroline, Countess of Grand-Tamme – his lawful wife before God and men – was enduring the throes of childbirth.

_This time, it will be a boy,_ Robert was endlessly telling himself while wearing a hole in the carpet by dint of pacing.

_A boy, it can't be otherwise. A son. _An heir. _His_ heir. After all those daughters, all those stillborn sons, all those dead infants or toddlers of either gender, all those so tiny coffins buried deep down the earth…

A very loud shriek of pain rang out from upstairs. This birth was taking ages, and the countess was having the hardest time ever giving birth to his heir.

More minutes and still no news from the midwife. She had even sent for a doctor, and now they were both tending to the mother-to-be, while Robert was left sipping his wine by the blazing fireplace.

The sky's thunder was rivalling in intensity with the countess's shrieks, and then the latter stopped.

A few minutes passed, then a quarter an hour, and nothing. Each time the door opened Robert turned, bolted from his armchair, but each and every time it was only a servant bringing new candles before the lights went off, a maid taking away the empty bottle on a tray, a footman closing the shutters…

Finally, finally the housekeeper came in and told him: "It's alright, Milord. Milady is rest–"

She didn't have time to finish. The Earl had bolted out of the room and was already taking the stairs two by two. In the corridor, he passed the nanny and his two remaining children – only daughters: The eldest, six-years-old Marie-Josèphe, with hair and eyes as dark as the night, and the younger, four years-old Edmée, blond-haired and brown-eyed, both as fair-skinned as porcelain dolls.

The two children seemed scared by the whole situation, and the screams they had been hearing for the last half an hour coming from their mother probably did nothing to ease their worry. They now were waiting to meet their new sibling, but didn't seem to realise it yet, all they could remember from this night and for many years to come was the shrieks and their nanny's worry and the rush and the doctor coming. Last time the doctor had been sent for, their one-year-old baby sister had died a few hours later. All this had happened the year before, and if little Edmée was too young to really remember it, Marie-Josèphe kept that engraved in her memory.

But Robert paid no attention to his daughters' fright. He burst inside his wife's bedroom and went straight to the midwife, who was holding a bundle of crying and wriggling white cloth:

"My son! Show me my son! Tell me I have a son!"

The midwife shook her head and, with a tender smile, presented him the bundle of cloth: in the middle of it he could see a tiny head with a fluff of dark hair and a black curl falling on the rosy forehead.

"A beautiful little girl, Milord, even more lovely than your eldest. And she has quite a healthy set of lungs! Listen to that!"

Indeed, the baby was filling the room with strong wails, kicking, flailing and wriggling all the while.

"She's perfectly healthy, Milord, and so strong! Congratulations, this one is a robust one!"

But Robert turned heels immediately, grumbling: "We don't need daughters in a family like this one. We've been protecting the kings and commanding the Royal Guards for generations, we had no need for another girl!"

He then went to his wife, who looked very pale and exhausted, and took her hand.

"It's no one's fault," he told her. "God is certainly testing us, my dear. We'll try again later. Now rest." He wasn't sure she heard him, or even realised he was there. She looked so drained!

"How is she?" Robert finally asked Doctor Lassone.

"Milord, I won't lie: it's been very close. The baby was engaged in a wrong position and it's been very long. She had to struggle and suffer a very long time before we could move the baby inside and deliver her. It exhausted her seriously. We feared for her life."

Robert stroked his sleeping wife's cheek.

"Milord," Doctor Lassonne went on, "I heard what you just told your wife…"

Robert looked at him "And…?" he asked.

"Not only did she seriously exhaust herself, but also the baby was so badly positioned during the delivery that the countess's pelvis had to be broken, otherwise both mother and child would have eventually died, your wife out of exhaustion and the baby from not being able to be delivered. But the sequelae are such that… well… another baby is out of the question for her now. It would kill her even before the child could be delivered."

The Earl blanched. No more children! It meant no son. Ever.

"Are you sure…?"

"Adamantly so, Milord. Don't even think of it: you would kill her as surely as if shooting a bullet in her head."

Robert slumped a bit.

"I'm sorry Milord," said the doctor, "but I had to be blunt about it, to be sure you understand the situation."

Robert nodded.

"I'm sorry," Lassonne offered again.

From the other side of the room, a strong wail resounded.

_The child!_ Robert thought.

He went to his newborn baby, an unreadable look on his face, and took it in his arms. He stared at his child intently, then with a wild and crazed look on his face, he turned to the doctor and the midwife, holding the baby at arm's length.

"No matter what nature made you," he told the child, "I don't care. You have the strong cries of a Grand-Tamme and the stamina of a real soldier. No matter what nature made you I say that you are my son, and will be my heir and successor; and your name is Cyril!"


	2. Chapter 2

_Note__ : To those of you who found horrible the description of the childbirth that occurred in chapter 1, just know that I did not make up anything: that's actually what truly happened to Empress Eugénie a century later: the baby wouldn't get out and she was absolutely exhausted.  
The doctor knew that if it were to last any longer, she would die, and the child too. So they used forceps to deliver the baby. But in doing so, they broke the Empress's pelvic bone, which was probably too narrow for such a handling…  
She was "forbidden" to have any other child after that, and even stopped having sexual intercourses at all because even that hurt too much, considering the state her pelvic region was in…_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Cyril, give me that back!" seven-years-old Edmée demanded.

But her little brother didn't listen, or rather feigned not to hear what his sister said, and turned to the window. He was a lovely child with wavy tousled dark hair and a slightly less milky complexion than his sisters, who both adored him. But he was also a restless kid with far more stamina than the rather calm Edmée or the already too perfectly behaved Marie-Josèphe.

The children's voices rose, so their nanny came from the room next door. It was high time she did, because brother and sister had nearly come to blows.

"Miss– Mister Cyril!" she shouted, "give her doll back to Miss Edmée! Now!"

Only two people in the whole world had the seemingly magical power to make three-years-old Cyril comply: his general of a father, and his good-hearted yet iron-fisted nanny.

Cyril gave a fight for sake's form, but the heart wasn't in it anymore, and when the nanny raised her voice once more he ended up grudgingly handing the doll back to its rightful owner.

"Mister Cyril, you'll be punished for that! You will–"

But she was interrupted in her scolding by a far too familiar sound. At some point during the fight the doll's head seemingly suffered a shock and the delicately painted but fragile porcelain broke, so now a crack was disfiguring it from forehead to chin.

Taking notice of that, Edmée started wailing, holding her doll tight to her chest. Big tears were rolling on her cheeks, and she was sobbing hard, nearly choking.

"Meanie!" Edmée accused her little brother. "Mean Cyril! If you want a doll, ask for one for your birthday, but don't break mine!"

Apparently, Cyril had a bit of a guilty conscience about that, and came closer to try and softly stroke his sister's cheek. Nine-years-old Marie-Josèphe, on the other hand, didn't even pretend to try and comfort her sister, quite the contrary.

"Don't be such a baby, Edmée," she said with an impression of both boredom and exasperation. "And for God's sake, stop wailing, you'll end up making my ears bleed!"

"Miss Marie," the nanny interrupted, "it is not your place to rebuke your siblings. And you are to obey me too! Now stop nagging at your sister, or you and your bleeding hears will end up being punished too!"

Élise Hugues let out a sigh. Those girls – no! _children!_ – would be the death of her! For five years she'd been the Grand-Tamme's nanny, and for five years Miss Edmée had been moaning and Miss Marie had been nagging at her. And three years ago Miss Edmée had begun to nag back, so for three years the sisters had been bickering, all the while doting on their little brother.

Their _brother_… Of course the girls didn't know. You just can't trust a child with such a huge and consequential secret! So of course Élise had always taken great care never to change Cyril's swaddling clothes in the presence of his sisters, nor of anyone for that matter.

The midwife had been sent away, with a very considerable reward for "her excellent service in assisting the very difficult delivery of the Countess of Grand-Tamme" but also an extremely precise description of what would happen to her or her beloved ones if ever she had the unfortunate idea to either be far too talkative or become too greedy for her own good.

The good doctor was trustworthy – of course, the king's doctor himself! – and the Earl of Grand-Tamme was sure he would never disclose anything about his "son", even to his royal patient!

All in all, up to now, only five persons in the world were aware of this family's big secret: the estranged midwife, Doctor Lassonne, the Earl and Countess of Grand-Tamme, and herself.

The Countess spent days and days sleeping after Cyril's birth, and by the time she finally had come back to her usual self, the baby had been announced as the Grand-Tammes' heir. Too late to backtrack. She gave her husband the cold shoulder for months to make him pay for what was according to her a very poor decision combined with a lie and a sin, but she finally came round, yet reluctantly so.

* * *

"PLAYING WITH DOLLS!?" the general shouted. "He has a whole set of tin soldiers, and he plays with dolls!?"

"Well, he also plays with his soldiers, sir, as do Miss Edmée," Miss Hugues said. "But today he grabbed her d–"

"That can't go on like this anymore," general de Grand-Tamme grunted.

"Amen!" the Countess murmured.

"He lacks a male playmate," Robert went on.

"What!?" his wife interjected.

"Surrounded only by girls… a nanny… his mother… there are not enough boys around him," he mumbled. "No wonder he takes his sisters' habits, games and manners. Soon he'll try to imitate them! And Edmée, playing with tin soldiers, honestly! They have a bad influence on each other…"

He seemed deep in thought, and was clearly talking to himself and not to the two women in the room with him.

"What Cyril needs is a good influence, and a male role model… A little boy, ideally a wee bit older…"

Caroline Crolet de Grand-Tamme knew very well that crease in her husband's forehead: his mind was working on an idea.

"Miss Hugues…" he finally said, "you told us you have a young nephew, right? Whose father died recently, if I remember well…"

"Yes," Élise answered rather reluctantly, understanding what he had been thinking that hard about.

"And your sister is having a rough time raising such a young boy while having to work twice as much as before her widowhood… I suppose she would be relieved if you offered her to take the boy here with you to ensure his future. If he behaves well and suits our requirements, I could make sure he has a good and enviable position among the house staff once he's older… "

And that's how five-years-old Thomas Brançon arrived at the Grand-Tamme's castle from his far-off province.


	3. Ch 3 - Boys will be boys

**Chapter 3**

"I'm NOT a baby!" Cyril shouted at his inseparable mate.

"Are such!" Thomas replied.

"Am NOT!"

"You're only five! I'm seven!" the older boy stated.

"You may be seven," Cyril said with a wicked tone, "but I'm much smarter than you are: at least _I_ can read. You still can only name the letters!"

Hearing that, Thomas became all flushed and indignant. He gave a kick at the tin soldiers aligned on the bumpy ground between tufts of weeds growing in the unkempt grass of the river bank.

"I can do more than that, and you're NOT smarter!" he exclaimed, nearly choking. "I can read entire words now! And if I can't fully read yet, it's just because _you_ have a real preceptor while _I_ only have a few minutes a day with Auntie Élise teaching me! Nothing else!"

"Well, I'm the future Earl and I'm smarter, so I'm in charge!" Cyril claimed. "_I_ rule, _I_ give the orders!"

"You're NOT smarter and you're too young! I'm bigger, I'm older and I'm stronger, so _I_ command!"

"_I_ am the future officer," Cyril stated, "so _I_ command! I'm to be the general, but you can be a soldier, if you want."

"Hmph" Thomas said, turning his back to his friend.

"Or my batman, if you prefer," Cyril proposed as a peace offering.

"Hmph" was Thomas's only reply.

"A junior officer?" Cyril offered again. "Or aide-de-camp? My right-hand-man?"

"Hmph," Thomas shrugged, "you'll just have to play alone, then."

"But it's boring, alone!" Cyril pleaded.

"You're such a baby…"

But this time Cyril chose the violent option, as often people do when they are short of arguments. He charged headfirst into Thomas's chest, which made the boy fall back on his behind. Fortunately the grass cushioned his fall, and he was soon up on his feet again.

Rage blinded Thomas and he forgot everything about chivalry and not hitting younger or smaller or weaker people. He punched Cyril in the chest. But Cyril, although smaller, had a wicked right and sent his fist in his friend's stomach. By the time their shouts alerted Marie-Josèphe who had been taking a solitary walk on the estate's grounds, the two friends were rolling in the grass, panting and grunting, but still throwing and dodging punches and kicks.

"Stop that!" she ordered. "Both of you, stop that!"

"Mind your own business, Marie" Cyril shouted.

"I demand you to stop! Cyril! Thomas!"

"Sorry Miss Marie," Thomas answered dodging his opponent's fist while kicking his shin, "but it's a man-to-man business! And furthermore, it's Cyril who started the fight"

"_Sir_ Cyril," Marie automatically corrected him.

"Mind your own business and leave us alone," Cyril repeated.

"Certainly not, I'm going to fetch Nanny Hugues, and you will both be given a spanking and be grounded!"

She left running to the castle and let them fight by the river. Well, not exactly a river, rather a rivulet.

Her threats seemed to have dampened their rage, and the heart wasn't really in their fight anymore. When Thomas pushed Cyril a bit too hard, the younger child fell backwards into the one-foot-deep cold rivulet. The temperature as well as the surprise completely extinguished his anger. He got up and out of the river, but was totally drenched. Shivering with cold, Cyril looked at Thomas through soaked locks of dark hair. The older boy seemed a bit sheepish, but had a too wrongly placed pride to clearly apologize to his friend.

Instead, he tilted his head to Cyril, acknowledging the state he was now in and just said:

"You must be freezing cold."

Cyril didn't answer, too busy trying to control his chattering teeth.

Still a bit ashamed of his role in all this, Thomas took of his woollen jacket and suggested:

"Your clothes are soaked, you will catch your death of a cold. Here, take them off and put my jacket on, it's too large for you but at least it's warm and dry."

Cyril nodded and started undressing.

* * *

"Miss Hugues, MISS HUGUES!" Marie-Josèphe called, climbing the stairs. 'MISS HUUUUGUES!"

But her father poked his head out of his study: "Marie-Josèphe, what in God's name is this commotion?"

Marie-Josèphe Crolet de Grand-Tamme wasn't easily intimidated, but her father was one of the very few people who were able to make her experience this foreign and very unpleasant feeling.

"Err… it's just, Sir… I mean… I'm looking for Nanny Hugues…"

"Yes, so much I gathered…" the general sarcastically said.

Young Marie looked down.

"Well, you won't find her here. Have you already forgotten she had asked for a day off?"

"Oh, yes, I remember now. Something about visiting an ill relative in Paris…"

At this same moment, Élise Hugues emerged from the stairs, her hat and cape in her hands.

"I'm back, Miss Marie. You were looking for me?"

"Yes, yes, I'm glad to find you home: Cyril and your nephew are fighting on the grounds."

"Again!?" the nanny exclaimed.

"I meant _fighting_ in the sense that they are hitting each other!"

"Again!?" Miss Hugues repeated, both indignant and exasperated.

"Oh, leave them be…" the general said.

"But, sir–"

"What do you expect…" he cut in, "boys will be boys…"

* * *

A shivering and teeth chattering Cyril had taken off his stockings, jacket, waistcoat and breeches. As Thomas was handing his friend his own jacket, his playmate was finally taking off his knee-length white shirt over his head.

"AAAaaaah!"

Stopping in his track, Thomas had just let out a horrified shout and tumbled backwards.

Something was unexpectedly very evidently lacking in his "foster brother's" nether regions.

* * *

_Note__: Yes, yes, I know: in the 18th century, five-years-old boys weren't wearing male clothes yet, but let's just say that Robert made his "son" wear male clothes earlier than the customary age of seven, for obvious reasons._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"But you're… you're–" Thomas stammered, pointing at Cyril, horrified.

"Freeeeezing, yes. Will y-you finally b-bring me that j-jacket?" his friend cut in through chattering teeth, wrapping his own arms around himself. Or was it _her_ arms around _her_self? _Her_ arms around _him_self? _His_ ar–

"You're a GIRL!?" an offended and quite put out Thomas exclaimed indignantly.

"What?" Cyril was evidently at a loss. He looked at his friend as if he had lost his mind.

"You're a girl… you're a girl!" Thomas repeated over and over, disbelieving.

Cyril looked at his friend, visibly a bit concerned for his sanity.

"I'm NOT a girl, what's getting into you?"

"But... but you are! Just look at–"

"Of course I'm not! What's wrong with you?"

"You mean… you don't even…" Thomas started, then stopped. "Cyril, have you always been like…" he did a vague motion towards his (her?) groin, not daring to acknowledge it more precisely, "like _that_?"

"Like _what_, exactly?" Cyril's patience was getting short, and it could be heard in his/her voice.

"Well… you've never had… I mean… Well, no, obviously you haven't, it just doesn't fall out like milk teeth…"

"But what exactly are you rambling about?" Cyril asked, rather impatiently.

Thomas scraped the ground with his right foot, and looked down. He then lifted his eyes again and took a deep breath, as if about to say something. But suddenly, he seemed to realise that he was facing a stark-naked girl and that it was highly improper, even though said "girl" was five years-old and his nearly foster brother. Not to talk about how uncomfortable it was making him feel. So he swiftly turned his back to Cyril, looking straight ahead.

"Err… Cyril…" he tentatively started to say, "I think there's something I have to tell you, and you won't like that…"

* * *

Miss Hugues was hurrying down the path to the river, and what she discovered there let her speechless. The two boys were on the ground, and a stark-naked Cyril was pummelling Thomas who had curled up into a ball but wasn't fighting back. He merely was shielding himself with his arms over his head and neck, and was blocking some of his friend's punches, all the while trying to plead with him:

"Cyril! Stop! Stop that! Listen to me! Cyril!"

And if Cyril was still shaking, it was no more with cold but with anger. Rage was a powerful blaze, and despite his still naked and wet state, he was hot. Burning.

Nanny Hugues quickly separated the two fighters, and immediately wrapped her shawl around Cyril's exposed body.

* * *

A dry and fully-clothed five years-old was stomping his/her foot on the floor, while a pouting Thomas was sulking at the two adults in the room. His aunt Élise was trying to calm her youngest charge down while General de Grand-Tamme was frowning, deep in thought as his heir was throwing a tantrum.

"I want one, I want one, why can't I have one like the other boys?" Cyril repeated like a mantra.

Élise raised her eyebrows up to her hairline and slightly turned to the Earl.

"And here we are…" she murmured, sighing as she threw a meaningful look at her master.

Robert had some hard time looking her in the face. She had never said anything, but he knew she had been disapproving of this whole idea from day one, and predicting it would turn out badly one day. Evidently she thought that day had finally arrived, sooner than he thought it would, and in her opinion he had it coming all along.

* * *

Once their respective punishments were over, the two young friends met up in Cyril's bedroom. The latter was still trying to slowly absorb what he (she?) had been told by the two adults, but surprisingly seemed to take the news less badly than would be expected.

Perhaps because she was still very young, or because she didn't fully process or realise what it meant for the future, the implications it would have on his/her adult life.

At the moment, she was merely curious about the situation.

"So, what does it look like?" she asked her foster brother.

"What?!" Thomas asked, shocked at his (no! _her_) inquiry.

"Show me!" Cyril both demanded and pleaded.

"No way! It's out of the question!" Thomas answered, indignant.

"Why? Come on, show me!"

"NO!" he flatly refused, blushing a deep shade of red.

"Thomas, it's unfair! I don't have one and never will grow a… a… what's the name, already?"

"There's no way I will say it in front of a girl."

"I'm NOT a girl!" Cyril folded his arms over his chest. "I don't want to be a girl, that's all. Now, show me, it's an order!"

"NO, I don't want to. And if you try to force me to, I'll tell Auntie Élise."

"It's unfair," Cyril stated. "It's not my fault!"

Thomas looked at his friend and partner in crime of two years and decided that no, it wasn't indeed his (her?) fault. But he strongly resented his aunt and the Earl, who lied to him for these two years and to Cyril for five. He felt betrayed, and deceived, and cheated. And for the first time, he realised that Cyril was probably feeling that too, and ten times more painfully, along with a good million other things on top of it.

"I don't resent you," he reassured him/her. "We're still friends, at least on my part. But I will NEVER, EVER show you my… my… my nether regions!"

"Spoilsport!" Cyril answered, pouting a bit. "It's not fair: you've seen mine, after all!"

"Pfff, for what there's to see…" he replied dismissively. "Honestly, the older boys make a fuss about naked girls, but in fact it's not quite worth the hype…"

"Well, good, because I'm NOT a girl anyway..."


	5. Ch 5 - The way things have always been

**Chapter 5: The way things have always been**

"T-t-t-t…" Thomas conscientiously tried to pronounce.

"No, Thomas, not _t _: look, there's an H just after the T," Cyril corrected his best (and only) friend.

"Then what?" Thomas asked, puzzled.

"Then it changes the pronunciation of the T. It becomes _th_," Cyril explained, "as in… well… er… as in _Thursday_, for instance!"

"Ah?! Alright, then."

"Try again from the beginning," Cyril ordered.

Thomas sighed but complied:

"Li-ttle T-T-Th-Thumb," he corrected himself, "heard all t-t-they-"

"No!" Cyril exclaimed again. "Here, it's _th_ as in _this,_ or _that_, or _the!_"

"_This?_"

"Yes."

"But why?" Thomas asked, completely lost.

Here, Cyril had to think hard and furrowed his (her?) brows.

"Err…" he answered, quite at a loss himself, "well, because that's the way it is!" he finally stated.

"But why?" Thomas insisted. "How do you know when it's to be pronounced as in _Thursday_ and when it is to be pronounced as in _this?_ Where is the logic? What is the rule behind that?"

Cyril seemed to be thinking a few seconds about that, then he answered "Well, I think there's none. You just have to know in which case it's _Thursday-_like and in which case it's _this-_like, that's it. It depends on the word itself."

"You mean one just has to _guess_?" Thomas asked. "But there's no logic in there!"

"Oh, you're really getting annoying here!" Cyril answered, slightly irritated. "That's just how it is! It's either one or the other, nothing else, and you have to know which applies depending on the word. That's all, that's it. That's the way it is and you'll just have to deal with it!"

At this, Thomas frowned and then seemed to be deep in thought about something.

"But then," he finally said, "how comes my first name is pronounced 'Tomass', with a T as in _Tuesday?_"

Cyril sighed deeply, seemed to search an explanation for some time, but finally answered in a very frustrated and irritated tone:

"I don't know! Because it's the way it is, and that's it!"

* * *

Cyril hadn't made any allusion to the disturbing truth she had discovered the day before, along with himself, and Thomas started to wonder if it was his place to bring it up. But as she had decided to help him learn how to read properly, he was too happy to seize this opportunity and held himself in check despite his curiosity and unease about the whole situation. For God's sake, he was best friends with a _girl!_

Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, despite the many tricks of the written language, that seemed to be designed with the first purpose of confusing the reader and prevent him from clearly knowing how to pronounce things.

"It's such a horrible story!" he told him/her about the book they were using to train him in reading.

"Yes, ghastly and gruesome!" Cyril agreed. "Unwillingly killing one's own daughters in order to devour them!"

"Oh, yes, that too, but I was thinking more along the lines of being forced to abandon one's own children in the forest to an all-but-certain death because you can't feed them anymore…"

Thomas could see Cyril think for a few seconds, and then it was as if a candle had been lit somewhere behind her eyes, as if some usually closed door had slowly been set ajar in her mind.

"Yes," she finally agreed, "that too."

* * *

"Pfffff…" Thomas let out a very frustrated sigh.

"I know," Cyril told him, "learning is sometimes boring. Let's rather go outside and play!"

"No, no, I want to be able to read for real!" Thomas objected.

"Well, you won't achieve that in one evening, so come on and let's play. Miss Hugues will want to make us go outside a bit anyway, and she will be there in a few minutes…"

"You know, sometimes you're far too wise for five years-old, but some other times you're acting just your age..." Thomas reflected. Cyril didn't understand what precisely he was referring to.

"But anyway", Thomas went on, "I want to try again, I'm making progress in reading thanks to your help, so I don't want to stop now. I don't want to stop until I can read at least as well as you do."

"But it's only normal that I'm better at it for now," Cyril said, wanting to soothe his ego. "I have been having lessons with my tutor for two month, while you have just been looking to Miss Hugues's missal and learning from her a few minutes from time to time!"

"Well, precisely: I don't find it _normal_, as you say, I find it _unfair_. I'm older than you are, I should have been knowing how to read for one or two years already!"

But to Cyril, it was another matter altogether: Thomas was the nanny's nephew, while himself (_her_self? Pah, he didn't want to think about it right now…) was an earl's heir, and a future earl himself. It was only normal that he was given an early education while servants wouldn't need much of it to be able and efficient to their job…

"Why?" he asked his friend.

"Why!?" Thomas repeated, outraged. "Why? How about, well, because it's unfair that you are the only one to have a tutor several hours a day while all most people have to teach them is their otherwise busy relatives or a few hours a week with the parish priest?"

"But… but…" Cyril struggled, "but that's not the same! I'm the future earl, and a future officer, and maybe one day I'll be a general like Father; I have to have an education! I mean, more than a mere footman!"

"But why _you_ and not the footman? Why couldn't _he_ be a general too? Why can't he have the same education?" Thomas repeated once more.

"Oh, Thomas, because… because… just because it's the way it is! That's all, that's it"

* * *

The evening sun was softly caressing their skins while they rested, lying flat on the back in the wild grass, exhausted after having played hide and seek on the grounds around the castle for a good half an hour.

"Why didn't you fight back?" Cyril asked his mate, hands behind her neck, looking straight at the sky.

"Hmm? What are you talking about?" Thomas answered lazily, visibly not knowing what his younger playfellow was referring to.

"When we fought, yesterday," Cyril clarified.

_Oh. That._ Because of… well… _that!_

"Well…" Thomas finally answered, "because it is not the done thing."

"What do you mean? We've fist-fought dozens of times before, and you're not particularly one to pull any punches, even though I'm younger!" Cyril seemed totally lost.

"Well of course, but it was _before!_ I mean… it wouldn't be very gentlemanly nor chivalrous to hit a girl!"

Seeing Cyril tense and jump on her feet, Thomas knew he had said the wrong thing, but he didn't know exactly what was wrong in it.

"I'm NOT a girl!" she shouted at him.

"Except you are!" Thomas replied.

"No I'm not. That's it." She was adamant.

Thomas didn't say anything, but let out a long sigh. He then gave her (yes, _her_) a sidelong look. Her words were definite and clear-cut, but inwardly she seemed to be struggling a bit with the idea.

And all of a sudden, he thought about his own situation: he was friends with a _girl_. What would the other boys think of him? But he immediately wondered: which boys? His situation was indeed worst than he first thought: he had only _one_ friend in the whole world, and this friend had to be a girl! Or rather, was a girl who _had to be a boy_, he thought.

Anyway, girl or boy, he sincerely liked her but she was really getting on his nerves, and repeatedly so. And also sorely testing his patience.

"Anyhow," she said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, "even if I were, I don't see why it would prevent us from fighting with each other as we always did…"

"But… but…" Thomas stammered, "if you're a girl, then I can't punch you!"

"Why?"

"Because… because it's not the done thing, that's it."

"And why is it alright to hit a boy, then? Why is it alright to hit a boy but not to fight with a girl?"

At these words, a lopsided grin spread on Thomas's face. He completely turned to face Cyril and looked straight ahead at her while saying:

"Because that's the way it is."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Twelve years-old Cyril was in search for her favourite sparring partner, but he seemed to be nowhere to be seen. She first went to the stable, as would be logical to find a stable boy, but the coach she saw there told his young master that Thomas had gone about half an hour earlier, once he was done with his early morning chores.

"He came here as usual, Sir," the coach told Cyril, "but he left some time after the Angelus, after he fed the horses."

"And where did he go?"

"I don't know, Mister Cyril."

Cyril turned around and walked away. She then took a short walk around their preferred spots on the grounds, but she didn't find him.

Therefore, she came back to the castle and asked Miss Hugues about her nephew's whereabouts, but she had no idea where he could have gone.

Since Cyril was six years-old, she was the only one of all the general's children who still lived full time in the castle. Her sisters had been sent away to receive a complete and suiting education in an Augustinian convent, renown for the high quality of the teaching provided to its students. In Robert's mind, the idea of preventing the girls to have any feminine influence on their little "brother" might have played as much a role in that decision as his wish to give them a better and more complete education than the one Miss Hugues could have provided.

Especially now that Cyril _knew_.

And talking about Miss Hugues… Now that Cyril was twelve she didn't need a nanny anymore, but Robert had kept her home and promoted her from nanny to housekeeper. Better not let someone with knowledge of such a big secret leave the bosom of the family. Providing her with such a good position was a good way to keep an eye on her and attach her to the family and the House forever. And furthermore, she was very competent at it.

Still in search for Thomas and struck by a sudden idea, Cyril went to the cosy library, where were kept the books several generations of Grand-Tamme gathered decade after decade. Thomas loved this room, and the general had allowed him – like any other member of the house staff – to borrow whichever volume or publication he wanted to read. He certainly had already read twice as many books as Cyril did, and seemed to be frustrated about the lack of choice in recent publications available in this library. He craved for their outings to Paris, where he spent nearly his entire small wage on the newest works by whomever author Cyril had hardly ever heard of.

Anyway, Thomas was not in the library either.

For lack of anything better, Cyril climbed the wooden backstairs up to the attic garrets where were the servants' bedrooms.

Which one was Thomas', already? Or rather, the one he was sharing with another servant since he was too old to share his aunt's anymore.

One, two, three on the left… Fourth on the left! Cyril was nearly sure that was it.

It was half past seven, and no one was here anymore: all servants had already gone to work long ago.

But apparently, one of them was back in his bedroom: Cyril pricked up her ears and noticed that some vaguely scratching-like noise and occasionally a short lapping sound seemed to be coming from that fourth bedroom whose door was ajar.

Cyril approached, ready to call her friend's name, but suddenly changed her mind and decided play a trick on him and take him off guard by tip-toeing behind his back and then shout out to him.

She peeked through the slightly opened door, ready to slowly and silently push it further, when she stopped in her track at the sight she discovered: Thomas was standing at a small wooden table, his back to the door, facing a cracked mirror hung on the whitewashed wall. Just before him, a chipped wash basin and a mismatched water jug were set on the table. He had rolled the white sleeves of his cotton shirt up to his elbows and raised his hands up to his face.

In the mirror, Cyril could see his friend's reflexion: his cheeks, chin an upper lip were covered in a thin layer of white foam, and his right hand was removing it from his skin with a tool she couldn't see.

But she didn't need to: she now knew full well what he was doing, and what the object in his hand was.

And as realisation dawned on her, a pang of envy seized her heart and guts as well as a wave of bitterness spread on her being.

Thomas's right hand lowered to the wash basin and briefly plunged the razor's blade in the water to rid it of the shaving soap it had gotten loaded with. Then he raised his hand again, this time to deal with his left cheek. Cyril couldn't help but watch, like mesmerized, fascinated by the gesture, despite the painful lump growing in her throat and the prickling tears coming to her eyes.

This enthralling gesture was so fluid, so noble, so potent, so…

So _male_.

She clenched her fists as well as her lips at this thought. Sour bile was rising up to her mouth, and her breathing increased through dilated nostrils. She screwed up her eyes, but all the while couldn't tear them away from her friend's motions, like she was hypnotised by it. She realised she was trembling. With rage. With frustration. With anger. With the bitter knowledge that she herself would be forever denied this manly gesture.

With pique.

With the frustration of being forever reduced to only witness it and never perform it. Of being the eternal spectator and never the actor.

_Shaving_. Glorious and striking display of manliness. Feast of manhood for which she'll only ever be Lazarus, feeding from the crumbs unknowingly left by the other males.

Yes, no matter how she was trying to deny it, she was eaten up with envy.

* * *

_**Note** : The sentence refering to Lazarus is inspired by Edmond Rostand's _Cyrano de Bergerac _: "Baiser, festin d'amour dont je suis le Lazare !" (Act III, scene 10)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Two years later, Cyril was finally done hating Thomas. For two years she had been resenting him, resenting every step to manhood he crossed, every display of his more and more evident masculinity.

He had always been taller, stronger, faster and more resistant than she was, but until a few years ago she had always hidden that fact behind the guise that it was only because he was older than her. Two years are quite a gap when you're respectively seven and nine years-old.

Yes, this was all because of his two years ahead. It would diminish as and when they grow older, and completely disappear once they both reach adulthood.

But time went by, and she didn't develop any of his enviable characteristics.

Since the day she discovered this oh-so disturbing truth about her birth-nature, Cyril had sought out and observed every male model she could, in order to fit the mould, to mimic their postures, to take from them al those little somethings and nothings that would make a flagrant difference between herself and women.

The way her father rested his arm on the mantelpiece, as though the whole world was his, as though he owned everything and everyone…

The way their coach, Letailleur, patted the horses and even talked to them in a low and deep throaty voice.

The way the old butler Caron frowned his impressively thick eyebrows when he disapproved of something.

The way the gardeners held their tools, and used their arms, and walked.

And then, there was Thomas. Steady Thomas, who was always there. Had always been, or at least as far as she could remember.

Thomas, who was growing up with a two-years head start, experiencing first all the stages in slowly leaving childhood behind: the first to be allowed to ride a horse alone and not just a pony, the first to be able to learn how to swim (though it still seemed against nature to most grown-ups who considered that the only natural environment for human beings was terra firma and _not_ water!), the first allowed to go outside the estate and to the nearest village all by himself, the first to grow tall enough not to need to stand on tiptoes anymore to reach the cookie jar perched on a shelf in Mrs Patemaure's kitchen pantry.

The first to grow some shoulder span.

_The first to shave…_

And that day she realised.

He was also going through a load of thing _she_ would after all never ever experience.

That's how it started. He was still her best friend, her only friend, her near-brother whom she liked and loved deeply, her model she wanted to follow, her servant she couldn't do without, the person she knew best in the world, the one person she would miss the most if he were to be taken away from her, but at the same time she couldn't help but secretly and silently hate him. With all the passion a frustrated pre-teen can be seized with.

Yes, she was hideously and irrepressibly envious and angry. Sometimes not particularly at him, and some other times _very much_ at him. She couldn't help herself. Couldn't really explain either, at least not rationally so, but all rationality left her the moment she felt the bitter lump raise in her chest.

And slowly, without he being able to recall exactly when it happened, it dimmed, lessened, faded away. Well, _mostly_.

She was still frustrated, sometimes angry, bitter over the unfairness of what she was _not_, but she was done resenting Thomas for what he was. None of it was his fault, and she wasn't going to be more a boy nor more mannish by hating him for that.

She had matured, she thought. Not _accepted_ her birth nature, no, but _made do_. Anyhow, she had no way but deal with that idea the best she could. Or the less bad she could, as may be.

But with each passing day, she was becoming more and more aware of the limitations that the "big secret" was imposing to her way of life.

For instance, she didn't attend a military school. The level of intimacy there was of course absolutely incompatible with the keeping of such a secret. Cyril was therefore kept at home, taught and trained there by her father himself. Not a bad solution in itself, according to her sisters' accounts about life in school: how cold the dormitories were, how strict the discipline was, how much they missed their family, etc.

The last time Cyril had seen Marie-Joséphine, it was for the latter's wedding, two years ago. She remembered being struck by how foreign this young woman looked. She hadn't seen her in two years before that, and yes, although she still looked like Marie – Cyril recognised her – this Marie was now an adult, when all her youngster sibling could remember was a bony teen with dark hair falling down her back, tied with a mere ribbon.

And then Edmée had gone through this same transformation.

And of course Thomas had known his own sort of change. Change Cyril had been the envious witness of those past years.

And what about herself?

Of course she was not naïve enough to still think hers would follow the same route as his. She had come to a vague truce with that thought. But certainly not with the idea that her own transformation would take the same path as Edmée's.

Especially since she noticed the cleavage her sister now displayed, emphasised by the bodice and stomacher of her clothes that did nothing to hide it, but on the contrary seemed to amplify it, squeezing the whole 'set' up.

Yuck! Cyril certainly didn't want to become like that. Not that it wasn't lovely on Edmée, but it certainly wasn't very handy and convenient in everyday life. And to think that men were supposed to be interested in this! Cyril couldn't fathom why. She'd have to ask Thomas his opinion on the matter. But maybe this particular interest would come to her later, when she begins to get interested in girls…

Because, well, of course she was a boy! So she would become interested in women, right? She wasn't stupid, she knew she couldn't get married, barring a long and rather humiliating explanation to her future bride, as well as a whole lot of good will, acceptance, comprehension and self-sacrifice from the girl. Might as well say that she Cyril would never get married, unfortunately. But that did not mean she was forbidden to look at the menu, even though she wouldn't enter the restaurant!

And yes, Cyril also realised with time that she would never be able to become a father, that she would never have children. Never have an heir. Her own father's trick gained his lineage only one more generation, but things would stop with her own death, and the title and estate would fall to their cousin Patrice or his descendants.

His descendants, who will somehow also be her father's, since their cousin Jacques Crolet – Patrice's father – and General de Grand-Tamme had arranged long ago to marry off Patrice to Marie-Joséphine. The wedding was therefore celebrated two years previously, in the family's best interests. Much to Edmée's chagrin, and probably Patrice's too. But what could he have said back then? Sons are to obey their parents, Cyril was so well placed to know that…


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Tighter, Miss Hugues, tighten it a bit more!" fourteen-years old Cyril ordered the housekeeper.

Élise Hugues pulled on the stripes of cloth in her hands, tugging at it the best she could without risking to tear it.

Half naked Cyril peeked down, then raised her head back up, grasping the bedpost for balance, and repeated: "More, Miss Hugues, an inch more, please!"

"I can't, Miss Cyr–"

Cyril let out a low growl from her throat.

"I mean, _Sir_," Élise corrected. "I'm doing my best, but I'm afraid I've tightened it the more I could."

Cyril sighed – but the sigh itself was hampered by the bandage constricting her growing bosom against her chest.

She hated that part of her body.

* * *

Officially, Thomas was acting as his young master's valet, adding this task to his other ones as a servant, quite the same way Marie-Joséphine and Edmée had been dressed by Anne, the head housemaid, until they left home to get married. Their parents had their own valet and Lady's maid, but Cyril didn't care for that.

Anyway, due to her "special condition", they couldn't entrust her body care to just anybody, to someone who wasn't aware of their secret. And even the so-willing-to-forget-his-child's-nature Robert Crolet de Grand-Tamme couldn't ignore the fact that letting a boy bathe and wipe and dress and undress his "son's" body would be technically and physically improper.

So this task fell to Élise Hugues – as if she didn't have enough to do with her daily duties as the housekeeper of such a big manor!

But to keep up appearances, Thomas generally ostensibly entered Cyril's suite, and went to his bathroom which had a discreet service entrance that gave onto an otherwise deserted landing and corridor. His aunt entered the room through this door and went to Cyril's bedroom while Thomas exited the suite. This routine had been going on for quite some time now, and no one among the staff had ever suspected anything.

Thomas and Miss Hugues, as well as the Countess, were over cautious around anyone to refer to Cyril as "he", though they had come to talk about her as a "she" as soon as no one else but the persons aware of the big secret was around. And the latter didn't please Cyril, but she had never succeeded in preventing them from doing so. Now she barely grunted when Miss Hugues called her "Miss", or flinched when her mother addressed her as "my daughter": she didn't like that, but she didn't really want to throw a tantrum at the very few people that were close to her, that loved her and whom she loved back.

The only person who was taking even worse than she did their referring to Cyril as a "she" was her father, the General Earl Robert Crolet de Grand-Tamme. He hated that reminder of a fact he would just have happily ignored.

And maybe, somewhere deep inside him, he had a bit of a guilty conscience bugging him. Another thing he chose to ignore. For the family's best interests.

* * *

Now fully clothed, Cyril went for her daily training in fencing with Thomas. Thomas had always benefitted from nearly whatever Cyril was taught, be it directly or indirectly.

Indirectly when Cyril chose to teach him how to read, or count.

Directly when the Earl, seeing that Cyril would improve much faster in fencing if he had someone his force to cross swords with and decided to include the boy in the lessons his son had been given by a fencing master, and sometimes by General de Grand-Tamme himself.

Sweating, panting, they were playfully fighting on the grounds, near a fountain. Cyril had made Thomas step backwards in defence while she was attacking, and his calves hit the edge of the fountain.

He had three solutions: the first was to counterattack, but he had been trying to for several minutes and today Cyril was clearly in great shape, and was having the upper hand in this fight.

The second solution was to go on with moving further back, and end up falling bottom first into the pond, in a very undignified manner. It may not be physically dangerous at all, but his pride would be severely wounded, and for sure Cyril would have a good laugh at it and not let him forget this embarrassing scene for a while.

So Thomas opted for the third solution: still facing his opponent, he jumped in a swift leap on the edge of the fountain, all the while keeping on blocking Cyril's attacks. He was now two feet higher, and it surprised his opponent who was a bit disconcerted by that unexpected move, and had to raise her arm up to her head to keep fighting. That was a very uncomfortable position, and Thomas, despite having to keep his balance not to fall from the low stonewall, was in a better stance.

But we'll never know who would have been the winner in this friendly competition, as the Earl came to them with long strides, a piece of paper in his hands and a joyful and triumphant look on his face.

"Cyril! Cyril, my son!"

The two young fencers stopped immediately and turned to their father and master.

"Cyril, look at this," he said, handing the paper to his son.

But apparently, he was too happy to contain his joy any longer and shared the news with him without waiting for him to read the document, as the sheet of paper was indeed a letter sporting an official wax seal at its bottom.

"Mister my son," Robert told him, "you are officially part of the King's Guardsmen First Company! It's official. Of course the commission cost a lot, but here it is!" he proudly said, pointing at the paper.

Cyril's eyes grew big, but not as big as the smile that spread on her lips. _A soldier!_ She thought_. I'll finally get to be a real soldier!_

"And," her father went on, "it's only a matter of a few years before we buy you a higher ranked officer commission. What about 'captain'?"

Cyril seemed to be overjoyed: she would finally get to actually _do_ something with her life, have a _purpose_, a real and useful occupation.

Thomas's feeling on the whole thing was significantly more mitigated: on the one hand he was happy to see his friend so happy, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure it was the future he had wished for her. Maybe somewhere deep inside himself, he had considered her a girl, and knew that to her, taking up this career would mean abandon any hope of ever living as a woman. Of ever _being_ a woman. And give up on anything that goes with it.

She was only fourteen! How could she be so sure of what she wanted for her life, and of what she didn't? Couldn't she have had some more years to decide, to reflect on it? Himself wasn't exactly the same as two years before, so what if she regretted it later?

"And other good news," Robert added. He seemed rather chatty today, Thomas thought. And in a cheerful mood. "it is now confirmed: His Royal Highness the Dauphin will marry the Archduchess of Austria next year. In spring. A good thing for peace between our countries."

"Yes," Cyril approved. "Peace can only be a good omen for this marriage. And a wedding bringing peace can only be a good omen for the Royalty, and the royal family."

"And," Robert added then, "as a King's guard, you can then be assigned to protecting the Dauphine, along with other guards of course, instead of just standing anonymously among the young guards–"

"NO!" Cyril exclaimed.

Both her father and Thomas looked at her, startled. It was a very good position, not too risky, as well as a good way to make one's way up thanks to the support of powerful people. A simple word from the future queen herself could make a career if she liked you, as well as destroy a destiny if you displeased her.

"I mean, no, Sir," Cyril went on in a more normal voice. "I'd rather not."

"And may I know why, mister my son?" Robert asked in a less-than-pleased manner at his son's little display of rebellion.

"Well…" Cyril begun, then stopped. "What I mean is… I want to be a real soldier. Not a drawing room's ornament."

"I'm afraid you're severely mistaken about your duties as a guard, my son. I am happy that you are eager to serve your king, but just know that being assigned to the Dauphine's security will not make you less of a soldier or a member of the King's Military House."

"Well…" Cyril said tentatively, "it's not exactly that…"

Thomas looked at her, puzzled. Her wish was coming true, and suddenly she wasn't that sure? Maybe she had doubts about the path her life was taking, after all. Maybe she didn't know exactly what she wanted…

And why did this thought bring deep inside him something that felt suspiciously like… like… a small breath of hope? Hope for what, really?

But Cyril went on: "I don't want to guard a woman, Father. I don't want to be surrounded by women all day, with only a few fellow male guards to interact with. You made me a soldier, Sir, not a bloody lady-in-waiting. I won't babysit an Austrian Princess while she's learning how to be a queen. So with your permission, Father, I'd rather stay among other men."

_Oh_, Thomas thought. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted, after all. Or at least what she didn't want. His very small bubble of something-like-hope burst in his insides and spread as a thin layer of cold fluid down the wall of his stomach.

"Watch your language, young man!" the Earl rebuked her. "And as much as I understand your view, when the time comes you will do as you're ordered by your superiors! That's the Grand-Tamme's reputation that's at stake here!"

Thomas wasn't sure what to think about all this. But one thing was sure: Cyril would now frequent Versailles, and consort with other people. Other people of the same social rank as hers. Other people their age.

All this was to him a dreading threat of loosing his ten-years-long status of best friend and slip back to being nothing else than the very replaceable stable boy. And no one needed an overly well-read stable boy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

After a whole year serving in Versailles – and occasionally Paris – and a few month finally coming to terms with being assigned to the future queen's Bodyguards, Cyril had come to rather like the girl – err… sorry, Her Royal Highness the Dauphine Marie-Antoinette.

The young princess had an absolute disregard for rules that Cyril found quite refreshing, while the education her own father had seen to give her was so strict about precedence and obedience to said rules! The future queen seemed to be lead only by her heart, and a repressed part of Cyril both admired and envied this trait of hers. Well, admired the trait and envied the ability to do so.

The only thing that troubled the young guard was that she didn't seem to really assess how much her duties should lead her to overcome her reluctance to entertain people outside her usual circle of chosen young oblivious and carefree friends, and listen to people who had come to Versailles hoping for an audience and a considerate ear to the problems they had to expose to the Royal Highness she henceforth was.

Cyril saw her as a light-hearted young girl in search for distractions, happy to spend time with the few lucky young people she had chosen as her friends, and appreciated the breath of fresh air she had brought to the Court. A view that was not unlike the king's himself on his grand-daughter-in-law.

According to Thomas, on the other hand, the Dauphine was… well… _how could he phrase that without committing an offence of lese-majesty?_

In just a few words, he couldn't believe she was the same age as Cyril. Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Habsburg-Lothringen, born Archduchess of Austria and now Dauphine of France, seemed to possess an amount of seriousness, ability to focus and capacity of reflexion inversely proportional to the length of her name and titles. God hadn't been as generous gifting her mind than he has been providing her with the highest birth. A way to show He was in favour of a certain distribution of wealth? It seemed that now even _them_ couldn't have everything, after all. Not anymore. Thomas couldn't say this idea pained him much; quite the contrary in fact.

It was said that the Dauphine's own brother had dubbed her "wind-head", back in Vienna. In other words, she might be a light-hearted young woman, but her heart was apparently not the only part of her being that was a bit light...

Yes, she was the same age as Cyril, yet she was still very much… _a child_.

"Honestly, Cyril, you can't tell me you don't find her a bit frivolous and superficial!"

"Oh, Thomas, don't be such a wet blanket! You should have seen her face when those dresses were presented to her! Really, to a young girl our age, is there anything more thrilling than a new frock?"

Indeed, Thomas could easily think of a whole lot of things far more thrilling than a new frock. A new book by Mister Rousseau, for instance. Or a new essay by the Marquess of Condorcet. Or even a new volume of the Encyclopaedia. But the future queen was said to have never read an entire book in her life, never come to the end of any, except the latest and trendiest theatre comedies.

To Thomas, clothes were practical items, or at least were meant to be, but by no means did they deserve to qualify as "thrilling".

Yet, he suddenly thought, he remembered at least one occurrence when a certain outfit made quite an impression on his mind: on the day Cyril entered the Guards and prepared to set off to the palace, she appeared on top of the stairs in her shining new uniform. It had been quite a vision: the gleaming brass buttons, the starched waistcoat and blue jacket with white and silver embroidered frogging, the red breeches, the black glistening polished riding boots... all of this perfectly close-fitting, adjusted by his aunt Élise herself.

He remembered... Cyril looked... dashing. She had so much style and class in that uniform, he thought as she was coming down the stairs, all serious but eager to begin with her new life and duties. Yes, he had found her very handsome in her new attire. Strikingly so.

But he came back to the present and to the conversation he was currently having with his closest friend:

"Her enthusiasm over these frivolous matters notwithstanding," he told Cyril, "do you have any idea how long you can feed a whole family with what costs each of these frocks? Or how much wood you can buy to heat their home? Or, let's say… how long you could pay school fees for underprivileged students?"

"Well," Cyril answered, "it's her money after all! She has the right to spend it as pleases her, it's not as if–"

"It's not as if she earned it through hard work, is it?" he cut her. "So don't tell me it's _her_ money. It's the _king's_ money, the allowance he grants her; and in a way, the king's money is not really the king's money, not only: it's the kingdom's money; so in other words: _our_ money! Well, not really _yours_, you nobles are tax-exempt on so many levels! But we, the Third-Estate, the commoners, in a way _we_ pay her extensive and extravagant wardrobe, while some of us own all in all only two outfits of our own!"

"But we nobles pay our share in blood, by serving in the king's armies! We pay with our blood, our lives," she pointed out.

"Oh dear Lord," Thomas sighed heavily, "where to begin with?"

Seeing that she turned a puzzled look at him, he chose to begin with the beginning:

"All right: in the early times, the knights fought for their suzerain, or their suzerain's suzerain. They formed the nobility. The rest of the population had other occupations like farming the land, trading or serving, and had to pay taxes in exchange for benefitting from their protection and for not having to fight these wars. Right, so far?"

"Yes…" Cyril answered drawlingly, surprised at the sudden historical reminder.

"Good. And next, let's jump a few centuries forward: medieval chivalry slowly disappeared, private wars have been abolished, as well as private armies. At the same time, administrative organisation of the state has allowed talented – and lucky – commoners to be ennobled and their descendants have become aristocrats and benefitted from its privileges. All this having lost any connection to the ancient blood tribute due to the overlord. And in several older families, many people did not enlist in the armies either, or did it in name only. Still right?"

This time, Cyril only slowly and reluctantly nodded.

"And now," Thomas went on, "armies are mainly made of commoners, commanded by aristocrats, granted, but the average soldier here is not a noble. Yet, this soldier's family still has to pay taxes on their land, on their products, on salt, on everything, and to participate to the corvée, hence paying also in kind. On the other hand, even the noble families who haven't have to risk any casualty at war still have very low taxes to pay for their land, while they can earn big through the privileges attached to it: fees on the compulsory use of the lord's communal mill or oven, woods, toll bridges, various taxes on transactions, and so on. All this paid by people who already have to pay other taxes to the Crown."

"Hmm…" Cyril murmured, "Now I see where all this is coming to. But I'm not sure a few frocks will make a big difference on the whole."

"Well, on the whole it's probably a drop in the ocean, yet I'm not sure that 'more outfits than days in a year' can qualify as 'few', but that's not the point. It's a matter of respect and decency toward the very people who _really_ pay her expenditure, while some of them hardly manage to afford for replacing a tattered coat, or even for some meat once in a while, or for enough wood to heat their house. So the real question is: do you think having ten times less new frocks would make that much a big difference to her, on the whole?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Cyril was getting worried for Thomas. Where did this idea that a queen or a prince had to _earn_ their money come from? Preposterous!

But now was not the time to think about Thomas and his killjoyness. She was with her new friends at the moment, enjoying some time off from service and relaxing from her duties at the Court. Some of her fellow guardsmen decided to go to a tavern, and the small group, lead by Bellasis and Grès, had headed to Paris, with some of their coaches or servants in tow.

They didn't settle on one of the trendiest posh cafés, where they would have had to behave, but as the main idea was on the contrary to relax they entered the first pub on their way as soon as they crossed the city borders. That's how she ended up once more in some unremarkable tavern, seated or rather slumped on a wobbly wooden chair loosing its straw, slumming it with the golden youth of middle aristocracy.

A few feet away from the masters' table, Thomas was seated with the other's servants. It was getting quite late, and an hour and a few empty bottles later, half the group had gone home. Only three remained: Cyril, along with Laurent Grès of Merton – a family friend of the Grand-Tamme's, Marie-Josèphe's godfather's son – and Thomas Bellasis – another _Thomas_, and another family friend.

The three young Royal Guardsmen were now rather tipsy, but Cyril was by far the most soaked of the lot. She was still very young and didn't hold her liquor very well yet.

Thomas didn't like it, but of course he hadn't the right to tell her so. When she had drunk a little too much, she was being a bit loud, saying either silly or angry things, as any other one did in that state. Good enough a reason for a concerned friend to be on his guard, but in Cyril's case there was in addition the risk that she revealed a bit too much, that she gave away a compromising clue about herself. By luck, she was so deeply convinced she was a male to the core – or was trying so hard to convince her so – that there was really little chance she let out any clue that she was a bit… different.

Yet, Thomas was keeping a vigilant eye and ear on his young master whom, in this bordering piteous state she had put herself into, he couldn't help but think also as his _charge_.

But the three friends were just nicely proposing and drinking toasts to their general, to the princes, to the Dauphin, to the Dauphine, and so one. Some of the other patrons were joining in, even though they obviously found them loud and out of place with their shining embroidered uniforms and powdered wigs, and agreed to drink to the honour of these young princes who were the future of the kingdom.

"Look at these fine gentlemen…" a more bitter old souse let out in a rough drawling voice, "they may well be all bewigged and delicately powdered and perfumed, yet those decorative pretty officers, as high born as they are, they are no different from us once they've had a few too many."

Cyril seemed to hear this and started to get up from her chair, but Grès gently held her back by the elbow, to calm things down.

"Sit down, Crolet," he sniggered, giggling a bit, "the poor guy is just boozed to core. Don't mind him."

But another patron, a giant sandy-haired beefcake built like a tank, had heard the souse: "No different, sure," he parroted, "and certainly no better." Then the giant turned to the rest of the customers: "Who, here, believes those youngsters are better than we are?"

Some sounds of approval responded to his rhetorical question.

"Never said we were…" a tipsy and flushed Cyril let out, with a slightly growling voice.

"Not better, maybe," a third customer pointed out to the beefcake, "but certainly better-looking than yourself!"

A burst of laughter roared in the tavern, as now everyone there had their attention caught by the budding incident. This bit of humour seemed to deflate it, though, and all patrons went back to their drinks and card games.

All but one: "Better-looking, indeed," a brown-haired middle-aged man said stepping closer to the Royal Guardsmen, "and particularly this one," he added putting his right hand under Cyril's chin and tilting her head back to take a better look at it. "Look at this porcelain doll! Isn't he a cutie pie? A real eye candy, this young ephebe…"

Cyril cringed. Thomas slowly rose from his seat but before he could try to reason the drunk man, she stood up abruptly, and with an incredulous yet angry look on her face, she exclaimed _"EPHEBE?!"_

While Thomas gently dragged the mocking patron as far as possible from his master's table, restraining himself from angrily yanking him away from Cyril, Bellasis slowly rose from his stool to gently take her by the elbows and make her seat down, calming her with a few words carefully said in a soothing low voice:

"Easy there, Grand-Tamme, calm down. There a worse insults than this one, believe me…"

Things quieted a bit. Thomas led the man to a nearby chair and made sure his friends occupied him by playing cards and diverted his mind from teasing the androgynous young officer.

Cyril's friends too were doing their best to clear the air, and rein in their impetuous young fellow guard.

Grès suddenly had an idea to soften things: "Drinks all round!" he announced, "my round, gentlemen!"

And like in any pub or tavern everywhere else in the world, this announcement was greeted with cheers and applause from all over the room. Thomas secretly praised Mr Grès's quick thinking and understanding of human's functioning.

"And these ones, gentlemen," Grès then went on, "are in honour of His Majesty King Louis the Fifteenth!"

But the mood was not to toasting anymore, and least of all to the now less popular old king.

_So much for Mr Grès's perspicacity_, Thomas thought.

Several growls or protests erupted here and there, and the first souse spoke again:

"I'd rather not drink to that, _your_ _Lordship_. So thank you but no thank you."

Bellasis, Grès and Cyril looked both unbelieving and scandalised.

"You refuse to drink to the king?" Bellasis asked, aghast.

"I do. And although I'm not rolling in money, quite the contrary indeed, I still can afford for having my own opinion. So thank you for the offer, but I can pay my own drink, sir."

And putting his money where his mouth was, the man tossed a coin to the bartender and turned back to his glass.

But an inebriated and still heated Cyril rose from her chair – again! – and slowly headed to the boozer.

_No, no, no, Cyril, don't!_ Thomas silently begged.

"Does that mean, sir," she asked him, "that winebags feel entitled to have an opinion on his Majesty?"

The lush snorted. "Look who's speaking!" he told her.

Truth be told, she wasn't feeling really clear-headed herself. But she wasn't to let him have the last word.

"Bite your tongue, sir!"

"Enough with hushing and keeping quiet!" a soberly yet elegantly dressed young black-haired man cut in.

"You dare disapproving of the king, sir?" Bellasis asked him.

"I certainly do. Now, all what the people of France is waiting for is the reign of the next king. He is young, he'll understand us and the world we live in! But the old one is dragging on and on, and–"

"Shut up, sir, it's treason!" Cyril cut him. "And how dare you criticise the Crown? It's an offense of lese-majesty!"

A twenty-something blond-haired well-dressed man took a step to her, and calmly but firmly stated: "Perhaps, if a little loud criticism was allowed and heard, the Crown would care to straighten out!"

But before Cyril had time to answer, the black-haired man told the blond-haired one: "Don't waste your breath on this one, Matthieu, there are none so blind as those who will not see. And as _I_ can _see_, his Majesty's Guardsmen's uniforms come not only with sparkling buttons and silver epaulettes, but also with a pair of blinkers!"

Their corps and regiments being attacked here, Grès and Bellasis sprang to their feet too and joined their younger friend.

_Oh no, no, no, all this is _not_ heading the right way..._ Thomas told himself.

And he was right. Without him knowing exactly how it happened, all he suddenly saw was a messy commotion in the middle of which Cyril was throwing punches to a thirty-something who dodged them while throwing his own right fist at Bellasis. Grès was fighting with no less than two opponents simultaneously, and at the same time a redhead had broken a worm-eaten stool on Cyril's back. She staggered a bit but remained on her feet and plunged back into the fray.

Of course Thomas bolted from his chair to come to Cyril's assistance, but the giant beefcake suddenly loomed on his way, and the last thought that came to his mind before he lost consciousness was: _oh,_ _crap…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Thomas Bellasis was not liking how things were turning. At all. Crolet was responding in a rather too heated manner to the other patrons, and there was only three of them (well, six if counting their respective servants) whilst the other customers were nearly two dozens. Should things turn nasty, it would be hard for them to have the upper hand, even though not all the patrons would want to enter a fight.

Laurent Grès de Merton was taking in the situation with a wary eye. He had sobered now and even though he too didn't approve of scum daring expressing open criticism, he was more a merrymaker and a facetious joker than a trouble seeker.

Yet, when the uniform they so proudly wore were being verbally attacked, along with their regiment and the Royal Guard corps, they couldn't help but rise angrily from their chairs.

The problem was that Crolet de Grand-Tamme was more heated than the both of them added were, and at the black-haired man's remark about blinkers, their young fellow had reached to the hilt of his sword.

Grès reacted immediately, aware that a bar brawl between drunkards was nothing like an officer drawing his sabre against disarmed civilians. And as written above, he preferred jokes to trouble by far, as well as a bit of a manly fistfight to a real riot. Were Crolet to draw his sword out of its sheath without having been physically threatened or attacked, there's no way they could come out of all this smelling like a rose, whatever the outcome.

No matter how things would turn out, they'd only appear as soldiers bullying disarmed civilians, as noble officers taking advantage of their position and weapons over mere commoners. And not only their honour would be tainted in that, but it could anger these people beyond measure, and Grès didn't want them to be the source of a riot, nor did he want to endanger his life in such a silly and undignified manner.

He therefore stepped behind Cyril and put a calming but firm hand on his friend's right one, forcing it to sheathe his sword back, for the lad had already drawn one or two inches of it out.

On the other side of the invisible fence in this heated debate, the blond young man who had voiced a wish for allowing criticism, the one his friend had called _Matthieu_, seemed to share Grès's concern about how badly the situation could turn out. He too tried to calm things down, dragging his comrade back to their table.

Yet, angered by the situation and the wine, Cyril resisted a bit, wanting to throw himself at the man's throat, and Grès had to physically hold him back by encircling his chest with his right arm, while still pushing his friend's hand down with his own left one.

"Don't!" he hissed to his ear.

Standing a few feet in front of the two of them, Bellasis could see that Grès was about to add something, but the man's features suddenly froze and he remained still, open-mouthed, as if he'd been struck by a sudden and unexpected thought, stunned.

Then Grès abruptly released Crolet and jerked back a good two feet away from him, still blanched-faced, staring at his right hand in disbelief. Crolet took advantage of this to throw himself at his opponent and it soon turned into a jolly and messy bar brawl, a loud free-for-all that made Bellasis too busy to dwell on Grès's curious and fleeting lack of reaction any longer.


	12. Ch 12 - Knockout Alley

**Chapter 12 - Knockout Alley  
**

_Ow. Ouch._

_Hurts…_

_Head hurts._

_T'is cold, too._

_Head's pounding. Pounding and hurting._

_Ouch. Why does it hurt like that?_

_And where am I? The mattress is rather hard._

_The pillow too._

_Ow... What happened?_

Trying his best to disperse the fog his mind was surrounded with, Thomas pushed on his arms to sit up.

_Woah, head spins… and aches._

_And… oh, not only the _head_ hurts. Everything else does, in fact._

He opened his eyes. Every thing was dark. Adjusting his sight to the night and the moonlight, he then saw an empty dingy paved street.

And he remembered. The tavern. The drinks. The brawl. The beefcake right in front of him. Well, rather _towering_ him. He winced at the thought. Goliath had the upper hand on David, this time.

And to think that, in the dispute between the noble officers and the other customers, he had been rather on the strangers' side! Cyril had drunk one too many, and she would be sorry when–

_Cyril!_

Where the hell was she?

Panicked, he looked around.

Nothing. Nobody.

_Oh, no, no, please God no!_

He quickly stood up, ignoring the protests from his aching limbs and back.

Turning around, he scanned the street.

His heart leaped in his chest when he made out the shape of a blue and red uniform in the dim light coming from the moon and stars.

Yet his momentary relief soon disappeared when he notices that the form was not moving. But was it really Cyril? And if so, where were the other two? And their servants?

He ran to the form and turned whoever it was on their back to see the face.

_Cyril._

And thank God, she let out a whimper, mixed with a faint growl. Thomas had never been so relieved and happy to hear such a sound, for it meant that she was _not_ dead.

But she was filthy. She had been lying in the middle of the paved alley, where both slopping side of the pavement formed a gulley that gathered rainwater and wastewater carrying along rubbish and mud.

He took out his handkerchief to clean her a bit, and as it was soon soaked in mud, he used her own to wipe her the best he could.

Here. Better. And she was not bleeding. Didn't seem to be wounded either. Probably knocked out at some point during the fight, like he was. Unless her liquor finally caught up with her.

"Cyril!" he called. "Wake up!" He shook her gently. "Come on, wake up! We can't spend the night here!"

She turned in his arms and growled, but didn't seem to fully wake up.

"And what's more," Thomas added, 'it's freezing cold!"

She let out a snore.

"Drenched as you are," he went on, "you're going to catch your death."

He shook her again, a bit less gently this time. But to no avail; she only growled, frowned, and burrowed further into his arms.

Thomas let out a heavy sigh.

"Alright, I'll carry you, then. Let's just find the–"

_The horses! Where were they?_

Oh, no, NO! No horses anymore! They had either been stolen, borrowed, or more likely untied from the hitching post to pull a prank on them.

Anyway, they now couldn't ride home and were lost in Paris, leagues and leagues away from the castle.

Pffff… Bummer! So much for the jolly relaxing night in town!

Never mind, they would take a hackney cab, then. Maybe not all the way back to the castle, but at least they can go to Cyril's cousin and brother-in-law's private mansion, in Saint-Dominique Street. Mister Patrice and Madam Marie would shelter them for the night, and supply them with what was necessary to wash up and tend to their bruises.

He slipped his hand under Cyril's jacket, inside her waistcoat's pocket. Nothing. The other side? Nothing either.

No wonder. Whoever tossed her in that back street took her purse. Unless she lost it in the fray?

Never mind, he would pay on his own, then.

He reached for his own pockets, checked the right one, frowned, checked the left one and then swore loudly.

"Bugger!"

Indeed. The dastards, the miscreant! Whoever they were, they took _his_ purse too!

This time he let out the heaviest sigh, then slid his arms under Cyril's back and knees, and rose to his feet. Even though he had braced himself, the effort combined with the soreness he was feeling forced a whimper out of his throat, yet he didn't falter and kept going.

"Look, Cyril," he told her sleeping form, "the night is still young, the stars are bright, and the moon is shining. This is a beautiful night for a walk." He chuckled. "Care for a small moonlight stroll, Milord?"

She sighed, nestling against his chest. He looked down at her. Poor Cyril. Her frame was clearly too frail for such harsh scraps. Such a rough life… Of course, He'd never say that to her face, she'd just skin him alive; and he was quite fond of his own skin, thank you very much.

He looked at her again. From time to time, she was wincing, probably sore from the fight. And when are features relaxed, Thomas could see how so very different she looked than when she was awake. No pretending in sleep, no need to restrain herself, to play and act. To lie to herself. To act the tough soldier, the officer with nerves of steel, the flawless heir. No need to be a tower of strength.

What were her night dreams filled with? Did she have nightmares? Well, of course she did. Everybody did. What were her worst fears? A world in which she'd have to be a woman? A world in which her father didn't take such a strange decision on the day of her birth? Has she ever dreamt of this in the darkest places of her sleep?

And what if she dreamt she was discovered? What could be more scary to her than that? Was she living in the continuous fear that she could be? He certainly did. What would become of her, then? And what would become of _himself?_

He took in her features. A wonder no one had ever guessed anything. Those round and rosy cheeks, those full and lush lips… this slender form… well, a bit less slender lately, he couldn't help but think. Yes, against his better judgement, he had noticed how she had gotten a bit… rounder in some places, of late. Curvier. Among other things how her tight-fitted breeches now underlined her–

STOP!

Stop.

_It's Cyril I'm thinking about, here,_ he thought. _Cyril, of all people! Cyril, whom I have grown up with. Who is like my brother. And furthermore, who is my master's son. My future employer. My very noble, very high-born and very aristocratic future master._

But he knew those last arguments were pointless. He didn't believe anymore in the power of birthright, in the so-called and too widely accepted natural superiority of aristocracy.

Still. It was Cyril. His foster brother.

The drunkard had been right, though. Her features were really handsome. And nearly those of an angel, on the renaissance paintings. Angels are _genderless_, he suddenly remembered. How fitting.

She was indeed very good-looking. Gain, his eyes were drawn to her lips. Hard to miss, those lips. Hard to resist too, when they were pursed into a pout, or in the contrary stretched into a smile. Cyril had often gotten what she wanted thanks to a few tricks with those lips. Aunt Élise couldn't resist, neither could Mrs Patemaure – which proved useful a dozen times when they were children and were caught stealing cookies in her office!

Yes, hard to resist…

Poor Cyril…

Hard to resist…

Without being aware of it, he had lowered his head a bit.

Drawn… Hard to resist…

He lowered his head further, until his own lips were one or two inches from hers.

Hard to res–

STOP!

Stop!

_Stop yourself. It's Cyril, for God's sake! _It's Cyril!

And it would be dishonest.

Not only it's Cyril, but it's a dozing Cyril.

A passed-out Cyril.

And his brother and friend.

Yet. Hard to resist. He hesitated, he pondered.

He lowered his head again, holding his breath.

Cyril moved a bit, sighed, frowned, growled, whimpered, and turned her head to nestle it against his chest. Right over his fast-beating heart.

And she threw up. Puked her excess of wine all over his jacket and waistcoat.

_Yuck._

_Ugh, icky!_

_Is that your way to get back at me for what I was about to do?_

Suddenly, Cyril's dripping lush lips were very easier to resist.

Not to mention the smell.

Yuck, Thomas thought while wiping his clothes with her handkerchief, the very one he previously used to clean her. Unfortunately, he couldn't do anything about the smell that was now attached to the fabric.

He sighed, then turned his face to the sky. To the stars. Mister Patrice and Madam Marie's house was not so far, after all!

"Come on," he told her dozing form, "I'm going to take care of you, and tend to your bruises and wounds. As brothers do."

Thomas resumed walking, his friend in his arms. The night was still beautiful. Perfect for a moonlight stroll.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"What in God's name happened to him?" a very concerned Marie-Josèphe Crolet asked Thomas.

"Here," said Mister Patrice, showing him the way to the drawing room's sofa.

"Don't worry, Miss– I mean Madam," he answered to ease her fear, "I think Cyr–, I mean Mister Cyril is mostly groggy. From the fight," he hastily added, still standing in the entrance hall.

There was no way he'd tell Cyril's eldest sister and brother-in-law that there was booze-up implied in this mess.

Unfortunately for him, both Marie and Patrice had fully functional noses.

"The fight, uh?" Marie told him. She bent and smelled her brother's breath, then wrinkled her nose and rose up. "The fight…?" she repeated, visibly disbelieving.

Okay, she was not buying his bowdlerised version of what lead them both to unexpectedly turn up at Mister Crolet's mansion so late at night, and in such a state. He started to make his way to the sofa because, well, Cyril was beginning to feel really heavy in his arms!

"It was a bar brawl, Madam," Thomas reluctantly admitted. Well, it was not entirely false, after all! "A bar brawl between sots," he added. Still true, he thought again.

Marie arched a perfectly shaped black eyebrow but said nothing.

"And your brother tried to step in." Alright, this one was a downright lie. "There might have been a few glasses or bottles broken in the fight, and their content soaked his uniform," Thomas made up, quite pleased with his quick-thinking.

"And… what…?" Marie said. "The fighters' breaths just transferred onto him too?" she asked, irony dripping in gallons from her tone of voice.

Ow… she was harder to fool than he would have thought.

The booze, the walk, sleepiness and Cyril's weight finally caught up with Thomas and he laid her on the sofa with great relief. Straightening up, he could see that the now visible large stain on the front of his waistcoat didn't go unnoticed by Madam Marie, who made a very discreet disgusted face, slightly wrinkling her nose before hastily relaxing her features into the neutral expression he had always and so often seen her wear.

She turned her gaze back to her brother, and so did Thomas. In the candlelight, he could notice things he hadn't seen in the moonlit alley: her right cheek was bruised, she was sporting a not-yet-black-but-red-for-now slightly puffy eye, her lower lip was split and a trickle of blood was oozing from it. At some point she had also gotten a cut on her forehead and it was bleeding too.

Thomas looked at his own waistcoat: yes, just above the puke stain was a small reddish-brownish damp mark he hadn't paid attention to. He blanched: she (or someone else) had hit her head! _Dear Lord!_ _Oh no, no!_

Her sister had blanched too, and was staring at her "brother's" forehead in shock.

Mr Crolet seemed to keep a cooler head and gave a closer look at the cut.

"It doesn't seem very deep," he announced. "Rather superficial. Don't worry, Marie. I'll have him taken care of tonight and he'll be able to go home tomorrow when he's slept it o–" he caught himself. "I mean, slept and recovered." Marie finally raised her eyes up to her husband's face, eyebrows arched high. "From the fight," he hastily added.

Thomas took a deep breath. Yes, Mr Patrice was right. Surely he was, wasn't he? Cyril's dizziness was certainly more the doing of wine and beer and cheap eau-de-vie than of a too serious wound. Even Madam Marie seemed to feel reassured. Yes, everything was fine.

"Alright," Mr Crolet told his wife while grabbing a handbell to call a servant, "let's have your brother taken to a guestroom where he'll be taken care of and nursed by my valet. Moslet!" he called.

_Oh crap!_ Thomas thought for the second time this night. No, everything _wasn't_ fine, after all.

"Oh, there's really no need to burden your valet with this task, sir" the young man hastily said. "This is after all _my_ duty to look after my master…"

"For what good you've been at it tonight…" Marie ironically drawled, considering the pitiful condition her young and beloved brother was in.

"My valet won't mind," Mr Patrice assured. "And my coach will provide you with a horse from our stables, so that you can go home and reassure my cousins about their son's absence."

"Oh," Thomas said, both annoyed and alarmed that Mr Crolet insisted on having Cyril tended to – and therefore necessarily undressed – by someone who wasn't aware of what her uniform concealed. _Think quick,_ he urged himself, _think quick!_

"Well," he went on, "Cyr– Mister Cyril is at this age when, you know… people aren't really comfortable showing their body to someone else; to some stranger, I mean, while he is quite used to me – and only me – undressing him…"

"But it wouldn't be like undressing in front of _someone_ else, just in front of a valet!" Marie said.

Thomas hid his displeased frown, taking the blow but not liking it in the least.

"What Mrs Crolet means," Mr Patrice said more diplomatically, "is that valets are used to it, just like doctors, isn't it?" he rhetorically asked his wife with a pointed and meaningful look. Marie just slightly shrugged, not bothering too much about hurting the stable-boy-turned-valet's feelings.

_Blimey,_ Thomas thought, _he was rather hard to convince._

"Of course they are, sir," he answered, "yet Mister Cyril isn't, and in his current state he would rather have a known face around him…"

Marie seemed to ponder about this.

"Hmm, you're not wrong," she finally told him. "I suppose I could tend to him, then…"

_Oh no, no, no, no!_

"With all due respect, Madam," Thomas tried again, "your brother is not exactly a child anymore, and I'm not sure that…" He didn't want to finish his sentence and let this heavy ellipsis carry the meaning he intended to convey.

"Yes," said Mr Patrice with a frown, "some people could consider it improper, even though he's your brother."

_Thank God!_ Thomas thought. He could have thrown his arms around Mr Crolet for voicing what he couldn't himself.

"Oh, please!" she answered. "I've been a married woman for quite some time now, I know exactly how men are made." Thomas turned a deep red, as Mr Crolet looked rather awkward, and even frowned at that. She didn't seem to either notice or care, and went on: "And I believe Cyril can hardly qualify as a fully grown man yet, in view of this." _You have no idea how right you are,_ Thomas thought. "I know everything about men," she adamantly stated.

Mr Crolet muttered something that sounded suspiciously to Thomas like "I don't doubt it," but the latter couldn't care less as all his attention was on Cyril again. It was time to take advantage of the momentary awkwardness between the two spouses and to take charge, so that things took the road he wanted them to.

He picked up Cyril in his arms again and lifted her while asking his hosts: "Where's the guestroom, sir?"

"I'll ring a servant, he'll show you the way," Mr Patrice answered.

_As if you couldn't show it yourself,_ Thomas thought. _But no! You need to disturb a servant in the middle of his other duties to do so…_

Hiding his sigh, he waited until a maid showed up.

_A maid,_ he thought. _Good._ A woman wouldn't try to take his place undressing a male guest, nor would she stay in the room while he did tend to his master's wounds. _Excellent._

Cyril growled and whimpered again. Remembering what happened to his waistcoat on the way there, Thomas turned her head away from him, fearing another round of vomiting. He climbed the stairs just behind the maid, noticing how her step made her skirt dance from one side to the other, how the material was undulating in rhythm with the swaying of her–

_No!_ Not the time for _that_, he chastised himself.

Upstairs, he laid Cyril on a sumptuous four-poster bed, not paying attention to the rest of the richly decorated room. She growled again, protesting against Lord knows what, feebly flailing and thrashing about. The maid left the room, only to reappear not a minute later with a porcelain basin and water jug, as well as white cotton towels and a clean suit. Thomas thanked her and as soon as she disappeared for good, he set himself to work.

He poured some water in the basin and dipped a corner of a towel in it, then went to clean Cyril's face from the now drying blood and some remaining vomit on her chin and cheek. He then took care of her cut, seeing that it was indeed very superficial. _It always bleeds a lot, there_, he reminded, half to convince himself she was alright.

It should have stung a bit though, because Cyril winced and opened a bleary eye.

"Wha… ya… dwin'?" she tried in a gruffy and whispering feeble voice.

"Taking care of you," he simply answered.

She slightly flailed again, trying to fight him off.

"Don' need…" she objected. "No' a child… Can take care… m'self."

"Yeah, sure!" he sniggered. "Look at what a brilliant result you got! Not talking about the state my waistco–"

But his irony was totally lost on her as she dozed off before he could finish his sentence.

All right, the lecture would have to wait, then. He sighed and went back to his task. But once her face was all clean and tended to, and her cut had been treated with some salted water to avoid infection, he realised that the rest of her was far from clean. Quite the contrary: she was damp and dirty all over, and as he had managed to prevent anyone from this house to tend to her and discover the Big Secret while undressing the young officer, it meant only one thing:

He would have to do it himself.

Oh…

She hated her body. She had never told him so, of course, but he had guessed. He probably would too, were he in her place himself. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered what it would feel like, being her. In her shoes. In her skin.

And talking about skin… She hated her own body, and was probably going to skin him alive for having seen it.

Ow…


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Carefully, he unbuttoned her jacket. But when he wanted to take it off of her, he struggled because, as she was lying on her back, the mattress was coming in the way.

He tried to sit her upright, but each time he let go of her arms or back or shoulder to take hold of her jacket, she was falling back on the mattress like a spineless rag doll. A stringless puppet.

"Oh, for God's sake Cyril, help me a bit!" he grumbled at the limp form before him.

But she only growled and snarled and whimpered, all the while tossing and turning on the mattress.

"Cyril!" he called reproachfully.

But she didn't react to his chastising tone.

Alright. Desperate time, desperate measures.

He sat down on the bed himself, then pulled her in a sitting position once again, but this time he leaned her upper body forward on his own. Then with both hands free, he was finally able to divest her of her jacket, all the while praying this uncomfortable position wouldn't have her retch again. All over his back… He wrinkled his nose at this thought.

Her waistcoat went down the same road.

Then he moved to her feet and tried to tug her boots off, struggling a bit with this task as her whole body came with the boot whenever he pulled on it. He had to finally straddle her thighs, his back to her, and block her leg between his own knees while removing her boot. He was done with the right one and was changing side to block her left leg when she seemed to surface a bit.

"Scound'el!" she drowsily let out. "I… give ya… taste… m'swo'd!"

And she flailed again, trying to fight off an imaginary opponent.

"Yeah," Thomas mumbled, displeased, "that's it, don't you dare help me out!"

What a millstone!

Once his friend's boots were lying on the carpet, the next step was to remove Cyril's white stockings. He bent her leg by sliding her foot a few inches backwards while raising her knee a bit, and he plucked the silky material between his thumb and forefinger, one hand on each side of the knee. Then he pulled it down to her ankle. Last step: raising her foot with one hand to remove it completely.

That being done, he discarded the dirty and smelly stocking, dropping it on the floor.

His gesture exposed a naked calf, a tapering yet curvy muscle, strengthened by training and workout. And years of climbing in trees, Thomas remembered with a nostalgic smile.

It also exposed skin, Thomas noticed. _Naked_ skin. Well, of course it did! Nude creamy skin, stippled with thin dark hair, like myriads of commas studding her calf and shin. And taking a closer look, Thomas saw that, between those tiny shiny threads appeared here and there a couple of small brown beauty spots, like so many dots strewn over her body.

Mesmerised, he stood there a whole minute, fascinated, learning the punctuation of her leg on the smooth beige parchment of her skin.

Suddenly, he remembered there was still a second calf he had to denude, a second stocking to remove, and as much 'reading' to do on her other leg.

Eager and afraid at the same time, he slowly raised a slightly shaking hand up to her left knee, then tentatively touched the white silk of her stocking with the tip of his fingers. He gazed at the precise spot where his skin hardly dared to make contact with the fabric, then idly ran his index and middle fingers a few inches along the shin to smooth the creases there.

Snapping out of it, Thomas expertly removed the second stocking and discarded it the same way he did with the first one, throwing it behind him over his shoulder. But here, on the shin, disturbing the smooth poetry of her perfectly toned and rounded calf and her punctuated skin were a few nasty reddish bruises turning purplish. On the day after they would be bluish and will contrast even more with her flesh-coloured leg. He briefly wondered if other parts of her were bruised too, and to which point.

Then he got up and walked to the chest of drawer, where the maid had set the spare clothes down. He picked the clean grey silk stockings and went back to the bed where he battled with Cyril's limp limbs to slip them on her feet and legs.

That done, he sat a minute to rest his own tired limbs before setting to work again. He sighed heavily and stood up, turning to face his charge. Her shirt wasn't that much wet, but some smears of blood had spread near the collar, as well as a stain of vomit. Not to talk about the clinging smell of varied sorts of beverage exuding from it, mixed with a hint of sweat.

First of all, he untied her jabot; with that one, the problem was another matter altogether: the large coloured smudge that spread on the white lace was evidently less due to blood than to cheap wine spilled over it. The material was so delicate, so frilly… and light, and fine, and airy! And… frothy. Thomas wasn't much into fashion and clothes, nor into all these superficial and shallow matters as look – or at least did he fancy himself as uninterested in it – yet he sometimes couldn't help himself but care about his own appearance. After all, he was a seventeen years-old… He hated to admit it to himself, but he would have liked to own such a fine item, and wondered what he'd look like sporting such a delicate lacy garment instead of his own plain linen jabot… Sure enough it would give him a dashing style, and would certainly flatter his figure!

Well, wishful thinking anyway. Fine lace wasn't for people like him, for working-class people, and probably never will. Still, considering gravely the suit the maid had brought, Thomas couldn't help but think he would look fine in this outfit… Too bad these things were only for better-born people like Cyril, or her new friends, or her family. And then he remembered his aunt's saying: _envy makes you ugly._ Yes, envy would never make anyone beautiful. Envy wouldn't make him better-looking, quite the contrary. Neither envy nor jealousy would.

He stopped daydreaming about what would never be and went back to unbuttoning Cyril's not-so-white-anymore shirt. Pity that such a fine and rich cotton fabric would be soiled and maybe ruined like that! Because yes, there was a small rip at the shoulder, where the sleeve was sewn to the front part: the seam had given way, probably during the fight. And there, at the bottom of the right sleeve: the lacy cuff was torn! _A real pity_ Tom thought, sighing again.

He got the first ivory button out of the buttonhole, then moved his hands two inches lower to undo the second one… why on earth did his fingers quiver that much?

He concentrated again and focused on the white fabric and the pearly buttons, instead of the few square inches of bare beige skin revealed as he unfastened the shirt. Soon his hands were working level with her midriff when he – involuntarily, of course – caught sight of something unusual through the half opened parts of her shirt.

There, level with her chest was a large bandage. Alarmed, Thomas stopped in his track. Did Cyril hide from him some open wound she received sometime during the few past days spent on duty? Or did she crack a rib lately without him noticing?

But right away, he spotted something else just above the bandage: a swell – or rather _two_ swells – of flesh. Two _rounded_ small swells, shaping two modest globes of flesh which lower two thirds were hidden under the white strips of cloth. Yes, _modest_, in size that is, despite the obvious lack of modesty of the subject itself. And for the second time this night, he turned bright red, however relieved that this time no one was here to see him blush so violently.

He pulled himself together and laughed at his own stupidity: of course she was not wounded! Of course _that_ was the reason for this bandage! How came he did never think about Cyril having… well, _developing_… _ahem!_

Because she was his best friend? Yet he knew that even if he didn't _fully_ see her as a girl, at least not up to the same level of other _real_ girls, he stopped long ago considering her a boy, at least not up to the same level as he was one _himself_…

Oh no, here came the headache again, like it did each time he was trying to think too deep over Cyril's situation and nature…

Complicated.

And the sight of her… well, the sight before his eyes didn't help him keeping a clear mind. He hastily lowered his eyes to her waist and unfastened the last button before removing the shirt the same way he previously did with her jacket and waistcoat.

There was _no way_ he would remove her bandage! First, because Mr Patrice – or rather the maid – didn't provide them with a clean one, evidently and thankfully ignoring Cyril's need of those. And secondly, because… well, obviously out of propriety.

Not that he wasn't at least a bit curious, as any seventeen years-old young man would be in his place, but–

STOP!

DON'T. EVEN. THINK. ABOUT. IT!

Going to the chest of drawers again, he took there the clean ivory shirt Mr Patrice provided his young "brother"-in-law and cousin with. It smelled heavenly, of lavender mainly, with a hint of clove – to repel moths, he thought – and also… was it violet? Or lilac? Hard to tell, the smell of lavender was so evident and strong that it outshined and pushed into the background the more subdued and subtle scent of the other flower. Forefront and background. Light and shadow. Master and servant.

Nobility and commoners.

Everything always came down to that…

He sat back on the bed, facing Cyril's still knock-out figure – _oh great!_ Thomas thought ironically, _now she's snoring!_ – and following the modus operandi he previously used to divest her, he took her arms again and tugged on them to bring her upper body flush against his chest.

Yet he had forgotten one small detail: it was Cyril's _naked_ and now obviously _womanly_ upper body that was pressed against his.

_Oh…_

Here, in this quiet room, on this snug and cosy – and appealing – bed, Thomas was holding a half naked girl – but was she really a girl? Or was she _not at all_ a girl? Well, very evidently enough what he was perceiving and indistinctly feeling against his upper chest – and maybe also in other parts of his person – was telling him she _was_ a girl. A woman.

But could people be defined by their body only? Or by the way other people perceived them?

To other people, he was the stable boy. And only that. In fact, to anyone but his aunt Élise, Cyril, and maybe the Earl himself, he was _only_ the stable boy. Did that mean it was _all_ what he was? _Who_ he was? Did it _define_ him?

_Ahem_… being all thoughts and philosophy wasn't helping him much to forget about Cyril's warm and naked and toned chest and soft breasts pressed flush against his, and he felt giddy, and awkward, and a bit clumsy at putting her shirt on, slipping her arms into the sleeves and then sliding the garment up to her shoulders.

She was so warm… felt so hot against him… Her hair in disarray was slightly tickling and caressing his cheek and neck. It felt… good, for lack of a better word. Very pleasant.

Yes, _too pleasant_ he thought, taking a grip on himself. It wasn't supposed to. Yet he couldn't bring himself to let go of her and break the delicious spell he was slowly falling under. The weight of her head on his shoulder, her chin digging a bit into his muscle at the back of it, the warmth spreading there, as well as the dampness…

Dampness?

Startled, he seized her upper arms and pushed her back a bit. She let out a strange throaty groan, half way between a moan, a whine and a growl. She stopped after two seconds because the motion had thrown her head back, limp as she was. He let go of her right arm and used his left hand to check on his own shoulder. There on the back, half way to his shoulder blade, his jacket felt damp. Moist.

He looked at her: right in front of his eyes, dripping from her mouth and spreading on her chin, running along her throat and jawline was a trickle of saliva.

Eewwww! Now she had drooled on him!

Pffff! No, no, no, no, no! What won't she do to him, tonight!

Resigned, he swiftly fastened her shirt, wiped her chin and tied her jabot.

And there was still her damp breeches to remove… But there, Thomas faced another serious problem. Even more serious than Cyril not liking that he had seen her self-despised body.

Thomas was dreading to think of what was going to happen when aunt Élise learns he has seen _Miss_ Cyril "bottomless". Ouch… That promised to be an awkward and unpleasant confrontation (earful?).

Huffing and gathering strength – physically as much as morally – he gripped her hips and lifted them up, then slid the breeches slowly past her hipbone. The rest went very simply: he closed his eyes and slid the garment all the way down her legs, keeping his eyes shut all along.

Easy.

Then, taking the maroon breeches of Mr Patrice's suit, he tried to put them on Cyril. But slipping her feet in the holes proved to be far more complicated, so he cheated a bit, opening his eyes slightly and making sure to focus only on her stocking-clad feet. He struggled a bit with the rest, trying hard not to brush against her bare legs but managed in the end, and fastened the breeches just below her knees, over the stockings.

The waistcoat and jacket would have to wait until she's slept her plonk and ale and whatever off, and she'll have to finish dressing all by herself. He tucked her in under a spare blanket and nearly slumped into a nearby armchair, his own booze finally catching up with him too.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Thomas had barely dozed off a few minutes when he heard a knock on the bedroom's door:

"Is Cyril decent, now? Can I come in?"

Aw, just great. Her sister.

He opened his eyes, got up from the armchair, collected himself, checked Cyril's state of dress as well as his own, buttoned his waistcoat up and slipped his jacket back on, and finally answered Madam Marie she was safe to come in.

"He looks sound asleep," she said, glancing at her 'brother'.

"He vaguely woke up at some point, Madam," Thomas provided, "but barely uttered a few rambling words before going back to snor– I mean, _sleeping_."

Rather sleepy himself, he stifled a yawn. He had enough of it all, wanted to slump back in that armchair and doze alongside Cyril. Or better, lie in a real bed and burrow himself under a freshly washed blanket. But first things first, he would have really wanted to change from his reeking, damp and dirty clothes. And wash away this stench of vomit and plonk.

Marie bent to gently stroke Cyril's forehead, taking great care not to touch the gash that had finally stopped bleeding, then straightened up and crossed her arms over her meagre bust, throwing him an unpleasant look:

"You've been totally reckless to bring him around in whatever pub crawl you've been–"

"Madam, that's not at all–"

"Be quiet! It is not your place to speak."

Interrupting his wife, Patrice Crolet entered the room. Catching the mood there, he tried to defuse it.

"Alright," he said, "now that your young master is taken care of, we can release you. Go to the stables, take a horse there, and ride back to the estate to reassure my cousins about their son."

"With all due respect, sir, I'd rather keep watch on Mister Cyril. His Lordship and Her Ladyship usually don't keep track of his schedule, so they won't worry, they'll just think he's on duty tonight."

"I take good note of your care and concern for my brother's well-being," Marie firmly said, "but I assure you he is perfectly safe here without you, and will be suitably looked after by my house staff. Go and tell my parents that their son has been embroiled in a brawl but that he's none the worst for wear, and that I'll take good care of him until he comes back tomorrow in the morning."

"And," Mister Patrice added, "you must be tired and certainly want to get back home."

_Yes I'm tired,_ Thomas thought bitterly, _and apparently none of you two posh people would think about offering me a bed or even a straw bale in the stable to spend the night here, nor about proposing me to wash up a bit, not to dare thinking about changing my dirty clothes…_

He tried as a last resort:

"Still, I think Mister Cyril will want to see a familiar face first thing in the morning when he wakes up in a few hours. And he sure would rather want me to ride home with him than to ride alone on a horse after such a night of–"

"Again, I thank you for your concern," Madam Marie sharply cut in a less-than-pleased voice, "however, I might venture that, as I am his sister, my face is certainly the most familiar he could wake up to under this roof. Now please, do as Mr Crolet told you and go take a horse to ride back to my parents and inform them that Cyril is safely spending the night here."

The tone was firm and imperious enough for Thomas to know that there was no way out. The young stable boy knew that, opposite the mistress of this big house and daughter of an Earl, he couldn't have the last word in this discussion and that this battle was lost.

Mr Patrice, always thoughtful to soften the blows, even to mere servants, gently patted Thomas's upper arm while showing him out of the bedroom, joining him in exiting the place with a soft: "Let's leave them amongst siblings, your young master will be alright."

Thomas didn't know him very well, but most the staff liked Mr Patrice. They said he was a kind man. Not a holier-than-thou snob, even though he was still as posh in mind as the others. The results of combined nature and nurture, Thomas thought.

But yes, the man always tried to soften his wife's blows. An outward sign of his innate kindness, probably. Or maybe was there something more intricate in this? Perhaps… yes, perhaps he did this on purpose, by sheer want to be contrary to his wife? Well, anyway Thomas didn't want to dwell on the complex marital relationship those two cousins had. Everyone had his own cross to bear, after all. And Thomas fully intended to apply Aunt Élise's wise precept as to not put his finger between the tree and the bark, to never meddle in private matters as far as couple issues were concerned.

Seeing him to the door Mr Patrice showed him with a wave of his hand that the stables were across the courtyard: "Take the bay mare, she's fast and sturdy, you'll see."

"Thank you, sir," Thomas just answer.

"And…" Mr Crolet then began, seemingly wanting to add something.

"Sir?" Thomas asked after a short while.

"Please give my regards to Miss Édith next time you see her," he asked him. "_Madam_, I mean," he hastily corrected himself.

Yes, Thomas thought, _Madam_, as she had been married for more than a year now; thanks to the earl's dowry that had enabled him to buy himself a second son-in-law, outside the family this time.

"And to my parents-in-law of course!" he quickly added, but too late to plaster his initial motivation.

"I'll be sure to, Sir," was Thomas's only reply. The tree and the bark. _Be sure never to get your finger trapped._ Sometimes the less he said, the better it was. _Just pass on the message you're asked to, and don't meddle._

* * *

"I hope you slept well," Marie-Josèphe briskly told her awakening 'brother', a stern look on her face.

She was dressed in a morning gown, and Cyril could also see that the sun was already high in the sky. It was probably late in the morning, she thought. A bright light was entering the room through large windows whose curtains were opened wide. This vivid light was hurting her eyes, as well as making her already throbbing head ache.

"Hmmgrrr…" she faintly moaned, slowly sitting up on the verge of the mattress.

She bend forward and held her aching head between her hands. _Ouch_. Her tongue felt furred, her temples were throbbing, she felt a bit sick and she was thirsty. For water, nothing else! _Oh God please, nothing else!_ E-ver, a-gain. _Oww…_

"Well," Marie said again, "now that you're awake, I'll call Moslet to finish dressing you."

She was about to ring the bell to call a servant, but:

"NO!" Cyril swiftly exclaimed, involuntarily raising her right hand in a useless gesture to stop her. But the briskness of it made her aching head spin and her muscles hurt, sore as they were from the recent brawl.

Marie turned a curious face to her, eyebrows perched even higher than usual in a both surprised and questioning manner.

"I can..." Cyril mumbled despite her furred tongue, "I mean… I'm already dressed," she said, noticing somewhat surprisingly that she was indeed wearing clean – and unknown! – clothes, "there's no need to disturb Patrice's valet for…"

Her sentence died on her lips as she leaped from the bed to the armchair and swiftly slipped the maroon waistcoat and jacket matching her breeches on.

"See?" she asked, buttoning up Patrice's too large waistcoat, "all done!" But somewhere in her mind, something was bugging her.

Trying to appear detached, she idly told her sister: "I don't remember undressing, last night. Heck, I don't even remember coming here in the first place!"

"Language, Cyril!" Marie warned.

But Cyril didn't pay attention to the interruption. "Who undressed me, Marie? Did you?" she asked, an edge of panic in her voice. "Did you?" she repeated, a terrified look in her eyes.

"No I didn't, Patrice didn't seem to think it seemly. As did your servant, apparently."

_My serv–?_ Thomas! Where was he?

"Where's he? And who undressed me?" she asked again.

"He's back home, I sent him tell our parents not to worry about you."

"Is he the one who–?"

"Yes," Marie cut in, "he's the one who brought you here. _Carried_ you here, I should say. The least he could do after getting you in the middle of a bar brawl. He probably won't be there anymore when you get home. Father has most certainly hit the roof when he heard what happened to you, and that he led you in the middle of a fight between drunkards. That boy will be lucky if Father lets him say goodbye to his aunt…"

"NO!" Cyril exclaimed, springing bolt upright, ignoring her still throbbing and aching head. "It's not at all– It's not his fault! It's not at all what happened! He didn't do anything– if anything… he helped me! If not for him… If not for him I don't know where I'd be, but certainly not safely and comfortably here! So if anything, we owe him…"

"Then if it was not his fault, whose fault was it?"

Fully dishonest with herself, and not wanting to acknowledge her own responsibility and self-culpability in all this messy matter, Cyril mumbled a half-hearted: "It was those drunkards… they lacked respect to the royal family… and Grès and Bellasis were there too…"

Not very proud of herself for trying to involve her friends to lessen and dilute her part in all this mess, Cyril went quiet. After a few seconds, she only added: "Thomas and their servants just followed suit… only lent a strong hand to their masters…"

"Oh Cyril, for God's sake!" Marie sighed. "Can't you see that boy is having a bad influence on you? I know you're still young, you want to prove yourself, but slumming in with the servants and their grubby and shabby acquaintances is NOT the done thing! It won't make a man out of you, and neither is it worthy of our rank! It's highly time you remember that he is – or rather _was_ – there to serve you and not to befriend you. Even less for you to take him as a model."

"Oh, yes, of course," Cyril replied with bitter irony, "I'm so sorry I mistook him for a human being! I'll try not to forget servants are just some useful tools, from now on."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cyril, you know that's not at all what I meant. I'm just warning you not to develop too much familiarity with the house staff, that's all."

"Too much familiarity? And what exactly is the frontier of 'too much familiarity' with someone who dresses and undresses you everyday, washes your dirty clothes, makes fire in your bedroom's fireplace while you're still in bed, cleans and tidies your mess, prepares your bath and wipes you dry afterward? Can you tell me what's 'too familiar', Marie?"

"That's not– that has nothing to do with…"

But Cyril wasn't listening anymore to what her sister was trying to explain. Her own previous tirade reminded her of a pressing concern she had a few minutes ago. Interrupting Marie, she hastily asked in an anxious voice:

"Who did undress me? Marie, who undressed me?"

But as Marie had nothing else to tell her than give her a lecture on how to behave toward servants, Cyril sensed no one in that house had discovered anything too disturbing about herself. _Phew!_ That had certainly been close, though…

"Oh for God's sake, Cyril!" Marie said, sighing with exasperation. "Your stable boy did, if you may know. Happy? I must say he was rather annoyingly insistent…"

_Tell me about that_, Cyril thought.

"He _has_ a name, you know. _Thomas_. His name is Thomas."

"Of course I know, don't be silly! He's been around long enough for me to remember his name!"

"Oh really? Then tell me: what's the name of the kitchen maid? She's been there for more than ten years, too"

Caught short, Marie seemed to be quickly searching her blank mind, visibly at a loss. Then, she wriggled out of it:

"That's irrelevant, I've left our parent's home years ago, so…"

But once again, Cyril wasn't listening anymore. She hadn't been discovered. No one else than Thomas undressed her the previous night, thank God! Her secret was safe. She silently sent a prayer of thanksgiving to the Almighty for that, and swore to make amend for the previous night's lack of temperance.

Yes, thank God indeed, it was only Thomas who undressed her.

_Oh dear Lord! _Thomas_ undressed her!_

* * *

"So… err… well, thank you for…" Cyril mumbled, standing awkwardly by the front door of the mansion. At a loss for more precise words, she made a vague gesture with her right arm and finished her sentence: "…for everything… For last night. And err… my sincerest apologies for turning up uninvited at such an ungodly hour..."

"Don't mention it, that's what siblings are made to, isn't it?" Marie told her with a wave of her hand. "But instead of an apology, I'd rather hear your promise that such things as last night won't ever happen again."

Cyril didn't promise, and looked intensely at the tip of her freshly polished boots.

"The company of such riffraff on your spare time won't do you any good, and if you and your young friends think that's how you'll come to become real men–"

'Real men'… Grès and Bellasis had already become 'real men' as well as most of her fellow guards she supposed. Some of them were even sometimes rather boastful about that, bragging about their success with some baron's wife or the favours some maid had granted them. Yet she had to admit her two friends from last night were keeping it more low-key than some others.

"Oh please," Cyril said more to convince herself than her sister, "I didn't need to go to the tavern to feel a man. And I know of other ways to become a man than that, might I add, at the risk of shocking you…" she said, bragging a bit herself.

But Marie didn't seem shocked at all, nor even remotely uncomfortable. Quite the contrary, in fact. She held her head even higher than usual and, towering Cyril as best she could, she stated: "_Oh please_ – to use your words – should I really remind you too that I have been married for quite some time now? I certainly know more than you do on the subject." She eyed her little brother with all the pride of those who try hard not to doubt themselves. "I know everything," she added.

A bit hurt, Cyril fought her conscience telling her to keep quiet and let out in a low voice: "Hmm… so have I heard…"

Catching it, Marie immediately asked: "What do you mean?"

"Well… that's indeed what they say in some circles…" Cyril hinted. Marie's eyebrows went high up her forehead.

"Rumour has it," Cyril went on, now not so happy with herself at what she was saying, "that last year, when the Great Turk's ambassador's diplomatic visit…"

She let her voice trail behind what she was implying, once again not daring to finish her sentence.

Marie closed her eyes, her features tensing a bit, her eyebrows imperceptively furrowed, her lips tightened, and she let out a long but discreet sigh through her nostrils.

"So the rumour has spread…" was all she answered.

"I thought you were aware of it…" Cyril told her.

"No. As you know, we spend most of the year in Patrice's family estate, we arrived in Paris only last month. And I certainly didn't know you were aware…"

She went quiet.

"And Father?" she suddenly asked Cyril with an edge in her voice. "And Mother?"

"I don't know. I'm not aware whether they heard or not. I don't think so, they don't frequent the same circles as those in which Thomas caught word that–"

"WHAT! You mean the stable boy knows–?"

"For God's sake he _has_ a name, and apparently many servants heard this because that's how it came to his ears. Masters talk of something, servants repeat it amongst themselves, and so one…"

Marie sighed again, not bothering to hide it this time.

"At least it explains why Patrice… Sometimes he says something I don't fully… He would have heard too…"

With these snippets of sentence she bid her youngest sibling goodbye, straightened herself, held her head higher than ever and walked back inside her husband's house.

Cyril left, riding the horse her cousin turned brother-in-law had lent her. Now was not the time to ask her sister to give her thanks to dear Patrice for everything he too had done for her. She swore she'd do it in person later. For now she had more pressing matters to take care of, like preventing her best and only friend from being sacked and sent away from her for something he wasn't responsible for.

Not that _she_ was responsible for it either, she hastily told herself. All this was only these grubby drunkards' fault, wasn't it?


End file.
